The Harder They Come
by Kuruk
Summary: Green and Red are kidnapped and trained by Team Rocket at a young age. Torn apart by relentless ambition, reticent compassion, and inescapable duty, Green, Red, and Leaf bring Team Rocket - and the world - crashing headfirst into revolution.
1. Prologue

_Notes: My entry for the Pokémon Big Bang 2011. This is a WIP; updates will be made weekly assuming that I have the chapters done in time. Makes use of the theory that Kanto, Johto, Hoenn, Sinnoh and Orre are equivalent to prefectures of real-world Japan and that Unova is the equivalent to the United States. The rating will be elevated with future updates. Special thanks go out to my artist, vargs, and my beta reader, aztecravemonkey, who have stuck with me (and continue to) throughout this adventure. I hope that you enjoy reading this!_

_Characters: Green, Red, Leaf, Domino, Silver, Giovanni, Archer, Ariana__, Proton, Petrel, Professor Oak, Lance._

_Pairings: Green/Red, Green/Leaf, Leaf + Red, Domino + Silver, Giovanni/Ariana, Lance/Leaf._

_Universe: Games - Generations III - IV_

_Warnings: language, extreme violence, torture, child abuse and neglect, pokémon abuse and neglect, sexual situations and material, heavy speculation, gratuitous synthesis of real-world and poké-world histories, character death, unethical medical and research practices, heavy AU._

_Disclaimer: I do not own _Pokémon_, nor do I stand to profit from this story in any form. All mistakes are my own._

* * *

><p><strong><em>the harder they come<em>**

_Prologue_

The reports come in early in the morning, and are apparently urgent enough to warrant waking him from his sleep. Sleep is something that does not come easily to him, so when he is fortunate enough to get some he rather enjoys holding onto it for as long as he can.

Dark eyes skimming the text with little scrutiny, it takes him a few moments to process the gravity of what this report actually entails to sink in. When it does, it hits him all at once.

"This intelligence has been confirmed?" he growls without looking up from the report. His eyes are fixated on the words _probable specimen containing authentic DNA_.

"Y-yes, sir," the grunt splutters.

He swings his well-toned legs off the side of the bed in one fluid motion and reaches for his robe hurriedly. "Have my chopper prepared at once," he orders. "I want to be on-site within the hour."

"B-by your command, sir."

When his subordinate leaves the room, the man makes his way to his closet and goes about the process of folding his body into one of his black, finely-pressed suits (the one with the red insignia emblazoned over his heart proudly). There is no need for subterfuge or façades tonight.

He has been waiting a long time for this, so he allows himself a smirk as he makes his way out of his chambers, nodding at the man who falls in step behind him.

"Your helicopter is ready for takeoff, sir."

"Excellent," he says. "You will be accompanying me, Archer."

"Of course, sir."

In but a few hours, he thinks moments later as he stares out the bullet-proof window of the helicopter and into the sleeping world below them, he will have the final piece of his plan.

He catches sight of his reflection in the glass and smiles darkly at it.

_Soon…_

— . . . —

Like most of their ill-conceived ventures, this one is all Green's idea.

They sneak in through the window at noon, which seems to be the universally agreed upon time for the researchers' housewives to call for lunch. Green's grandfather is gone too. Despite the fact that he has been a widower for over a decade and had developed the habit of skipping meals to squint at data in hopes of finding some kind of pattern there, Daisy's insistence at playing at being a mother figure ensures that the old man would go home for lunch.

Their shoes, dirty from the half hour they'd spent hiding in the bushes, track mud onto the once pristine white floors. Being little boys, Green and Red don't pay any attention to the mess; being the best friend of two little boys, Leaf smothers down her natural instinct to reprimand them and restrains herself to wrinkling her nose at them behind their backs distastefully.

Leaf had spent the greater part of the morning trying to convince her friends not to go through with the stupid plan. Much to her dismay, threatening not to play with them anymore and tell on them didn't work, perhaps because both boys know that Leaf is no tattle-tale. In truth, she would rather get into trouble with them than be stuck in her little pink room filled with oppressive frilly dresses and a mother eager to relive her contest days vicariously through her tomboyish seven-year-old.

Of the three, Green is the only one without any misgivings. Instead, he is possessed by his insatiable eight-year-old curiosity and a deep-rooted desire to prove himself to his grandfather. Red, though considerably hesitant about the matter, has let his best friend's tales of yellow mice with red cheeks overrule the stern sound of his mother's voice that rings in his head.

Glancing about the lab furtively, Green walks towards his grandfather's desk, eyes locked on the glinting spheres that rest next to a stack of half-read reports and a mug filled with stale coffee. With considerably less determination, Red and Leaf follow.

Taking a deep breath, Green reaches a little hand out to grab one of them –

"Are you _sure_ this is a good idea?" Leaf blurts, unable to censor herself any longer. "Stealing is _wrong,_ Green."

His efforts frustrated, Green spins on his heel and crosses his arms over his chest with a huff, glaring at her venomously. "I already told you that it isn't stealing 'cause they're my gramps', stupid. You can't steal from family."

"Yes you can!" Leaf protests. "'Specially since your grandpa told you not to take them when you asked if you could."

Green has no real counter to this, but with Red's eyes darting between him and Leaf anxiously, he finds that he cannot back down. So he forces his body to relax into an uncaring posture, lets his lips twist into a smirk. Already he is learning the value of feigning confidence, of acting like he doesn't care when he actually does.

"Whatever, Leaf," he says with a small shrug. "I should've known that you were too chicken… being a _girl_ and all."

The mockery has its intended effect. Leaf's face flushes with anger, and her hands curl into angry fists. "You – you," she begins, shaking a little with indignation.

"If you're too much of a _girl_ to do this with us," he continues, "then you should just leave." He turns his gaze to Red and smirks at him. "Right, Red?"

Red's eyes tear away from Leaf and focus on Green. "Don't be mean…" he murmurs, and Green frowns, unsatisfied with his answer.

In time Green will learn that he shouldn't phrase such things as questions because doing so always ends up giving the other person more power than he ever intended. In time he will be taught to give orders instead of ask questions, will learn to command respect and compliance with every movement he makes.

But right now Green is just a little boy who misses his mother and father more than he'll ever admit, who wants his grandfather's attention more than he thinks he should. He needs Red as his captive audience too much to be the bully he'll become yet, so all he can do is act like he doesn't care if Red chickens out on him when, in reality, he hates every second Red spends looking between the two of them, considering silently.

"Whatever!" Leaf shouts, breaking the tense standoff, "See if I care when the two of you get in trouble!"

And with that, she stomps back towards the window, climbing onto one of the lab's office chairs to reach the ledge.

"You're not gonna tell, are you?" Green calls over the heady feeling of victory that makes his ears thrum dizzyingly, pleasantly.

Leaf is halfway through the threshold, skinny legs hanging precariously over the edge. Her fingers, slightly pudgy with youth, tighten on the ledge to keep from falling forward.

"I'm not a tattle-tale," Leaf bites out before pushing herself off into the bushes. She does not look back.

It's not a 'no,' but it's enough to make the feeling intensify, make Green feel lighter than air as he smirks at Red in cocky satisfaction.

"You didn't have to be so mean," Red murmurs sullenly, crimson eyes dulling guiltily.

Green just rolls his eyes and says, "You can go too if you're gonna be a _girl_ about it."

Red bites his bottom lip but shakes his head, whispers, "I'm not a girl," and Green knows that he has won.

The thing about Red is that he cares far too much about the people closest to him to disappoint any one of them. It just depends on who he's around at the moment. He is loyal to an extent: he will follow Green anywhere as long as Leaf doesn't protest. Green sees the weakness there, knows that it is something he will have to fix eventually. There are three of them, and that is one too many.

But that is eventually, isn't it, and right now there are more important matters that warrant his eight-year-old attention. Turning on his heel eagerly, his forest-green eyes rest hungrily on the red-and-white spheres – _poké balls –_ again.

Green reaches out, fingers brushing against the cool metal, tracing the black line that runs along its circumference and the button-like circle at its center. This is the stuff of his dreams, and Green takes a moment to imagine himself as a trainer, traveling the world and challenging the gym and becoming Champion, strong and famous and invincible. This is definitely not the first time he has given himself over to such daydreams, but they have never felt more real than they do now, with his fingers resting against an actual poké ball.

He's drawn out of it when Red makes a small sound that is equal parts nervous and eager. Grabbing the other ball in his other hand, he tosses it at Red with a quick shout of, "Catch!"

Red fumbles with the ball, small fingers struggling for purchase on its smooth surface. His eyes widen comically when it slips from his sweaty grasp and clatters to the floor. Green's eyes are just as wide as the ball opens. The flash of white light coalesces into a small ball of brown-and-white fluff, its dark eyes focusing on Red curiously.

They stare at the creature in awe for a few long, drawn out moments.

It makes a small, questioning sound that snaps them out of their reverie.

"What is it?" Red asks softly, almost as if he were afraid to startle it.

"An eevee," Green replies, and the eevee makes another noise, eyes fixed on Green questioningly. The boy smiles in wonderment, crouching and extending a hand to it, beckoning silently. The eevee accepts, crawling forward slowly. It sniffs at Green's fingers almost cautiously for a few moments before licking his fingers in approval, and he giggles uncontrollably. He is sure that this is the best moment in his life, that it will never get any better than this.

"No fair," Red says tonelessly. "It likes you better…"

Green smirks to himself, hand scratching at the back of the eevee's ears. "Duh," he says. "It knows that I'm the better trainer, don't ya?" Eevee pushes its head into his fingers and Green takes that as confirmation, making an indefinable feeling swell in his chest, pressing against his ribcage so hard it almost hurts. When he looks up, he is greeted with the sight of Red's bottom lip stuck out, eyes shimmering dangerously. With a huff, Green rolls the other poké ball across the floor to him. "Trade ya?" he offers, not quite able to keep the twinge of exasperation out of his voice.

Red sniffles, but accepts anyway, crouching when the poké ball collides with his shoe. He picks it up cautiously, turning it around in his hands and inspecting it from every angle. When his finger brushes over the button, the ball expands in his hand, startling him so much that he almost drops it, only catching it at the last moment. Green snorts derisively, running his fingers down the length of Eevee's back, making it arch its spine against his hand.

"Are you gonna call it out or what?" Green snaps impatiently.

He stares at the sphere for a few more seconds. When he nods and makes to open it, the sudden movement makes the red glint of the fluorescent lights against the surface of the poké ball catch in his crimson eyes.

For the briefest of seconds, Green thinks the usual dull red of his eyes erupts into an untamable fire, wild and all consuming, but it was only a second. Soon his friend's eyes are dull and apathetic again, and Green is sure that it had never happened, that it was all in his imagination.

The second poké ball stutters to life when it hits the floor, white light escaping towards the ceiling before careening back to the floor. The creature that is molded from it is mouse-like in appearance, covered in short yellow fur save for the shock of cherry-red on its cheeks. Its eyes had been screwed shut against the light, but after a second, it opens them, staring at both boys in what can only be described to be irritation.

"It's a pikachu," Green supplies, recalling its likeness from the pages of the picture book his sister had given him for Christmas the year before. "An electric type."

At the sound of its name, the pikachu cocks its head to the side, almost reluctantly curious.

"Pikachu…" Red repeats, catching and holding the rodent's eyes with his own.

They're years away from being old enough to be real live pokémon trainers, but that doesn't mean that they can't be friends with pokémon. A lot of kids in Pallet Town already have pokémon companions, but Professor Oak refuses to let Green have one before he's of legal age. It's stupid and unfair, especially since his grandfather won't even let him meet some of the pokémon at the ranch. His grandfather's repeated refusals is the reason why Green had come up with the idea of sneaking into the lab today. He'd just wanted to _meet_ the pokémon, see what type they were and how they reacted to his presence, see for himself how a poké ball felt nestled in his hand.

He has all those answers now, but Eevee is staring straight into his eyes, dark brown eyes filled with loyalty and expectation. Suddenly Green doesn't want to leave and pretend like this had never happened.

Yeah, they'd get in trouble… but there wouldn't be another chance for them to do something like this until they were _ten, _and two years is a very long time to anyone, especially to an eight-year-old.

With a quick look at the digital clock on his grandfather's desk, Green makes his decision.

"Hey Red," he says without taking his eyes off Eevee, licking his chapped lips hurriedly, "wanna go out to the forest and play with them?"

He expects Red to hesitate, to spend a minute or two weighing the options like he always does. Instead, he nods immediately.

"Yeah," his best friend says, eyes catching flame again.

When the fire in his eyes doesn't die out for a few seconds, Green is almost sure that it isn't his imagination this time.

— . . . —

There's a storm brewing in the distance, dark clouds rolling in from the north, black and ominous. With each passing minute, they blot out the sunlight more and more, leaving the world in shadows.

But Leaf is a big girl, so she's not afraid of storms.

There was a time not too long ago when she was, when she hid under her princess-pink bed covers at the sound of thunder cracking in the distance, of the rain and wind raging against her windowpane. But that was before she met Green and Red and realized that in order to be friends with them she needed to be braver than they were (or pretended to be).

So Leaf stares out the window, waiting for the boys to come looking for her, to tell her stories of how _cool_ it was to meet real live pokémon and how badly she missed out.

She ends up waiting for hours, until the thunder roars and the rain batters the glass, until it seems like there's no trace of sunlight left in the whole wide world.

And when there is finally a knock on the door, it turns out to be Green's sister and Red's mom instead, frantic-eyed and soaked to the bone.

The last image she has of them – Green's victorious smirk, Red's apologetically guilty look – forever etched into her memory, impossible to forget.

That will be the last she sees of the boys for years.

— . . . —

It had been fun for the first couple of hours.

They played freeze tag and hide-and-go-seek, weaving between the trees as the pokémon gave chase, their delighted shouts and yelps echoing through the brush.

It is only after the first rumbles of thunder become audible that Green realizes with a pang that they are lost.

Perhaps running around so aimlessly in their games had been reckless.

Pushing down the dull edge of terror that slices into his mind at the realization, Green forces himself to look around again only to find that every tree and path looks the same as the last.

"G-Green…" Red mumbles, just loud enough to be heard over the whines of the pokémon, "Pikachu and Eevee are getting hungry and tired…"

"I know that," Green snaps, biting at his lower lip harshly. "It's this way!"

Green really doesn't know the way back home. They are lost; he knows this.

But he also knows that if he admits to being lost, he would look stupid in front of Red and Eevee, and he doesn't want Red to get mad or Eevee to question how good a trainer he could possibly be if he gets them _lost._ So Green just grits his teeth and leads the way.

It feels like they've been walking for hours by the time it starts raining.

Pikachu makes a whine low in its throat from its position in Red's arms, cheeks crackling weakly with static electricity; Eevee, still keeping in step with Green on the ground, tries to no avail to shake the water from its matted fur. The boys are soaked to the bone, the thin fabric of their t-shirts sticking to their clammy skin. Their teeth chatter constantly as they try to find a place where they can hide from the rain.

Unsurprisingly, Red has remained silent throughout the whole ordeal, and Green is more thankful for this than he knows how to express. He doesn't know what he'd do if Leaf was there, whining and berating him for getting them lost, questioning his every decision.

They eventually find cover underneath a thick canopy of trees. The foliage, though thick, does not trap all the water, a few droplets making it through and wiping away any hope of getting dry. The boys rest with their backs against the trunk of one of the trees, the bark biting into the soft skin of their backs with each minute shiver that wracks their bodies. They pressed their sides together, seeking warmth. The pokémon curl up in their laps, shivering violently themselves.

"What are we going to do, Green?" Red asks, voice hoarse with the beginnings of a cold.

Green screws his eyes shut against the rush of helpless tears and refuses to reply.

He suddenly wants to go _home_, wants his sister and grandfather and mommy and daddy so, so badly.

At least when the first tears push their way through his eyelids, he can blame it on the rain.

— . . . —

The townspeople organize a search party to look for the boys after Daisy and Red's mother had managed to pry out all the information from Leaf and Professor Oak had confirmed that two of his pokémon were missing. One of the Oaks' neighbors owned an arcanine, and using its keen sense of smell, they were hoping to find the boys before the downpour washed away their scent.

So three hours after Green and Red made their way into the forest, the party began searching the surrounding fields. After scouring them for an hour, plagued by the poor visibility and the arcanine's natural aversion to the water buffeting them from all directions, they would make their way into the forest.

By that time, it is already far too late.

— . . . —

The faint sound of voices had Eevee's and Pikachu's ears twitching to attention much sooner than Green's human ones could hear it. Nudging Red into alertness, he forced himself up onto his feet, muscles rigid and tense from the cold and having stayed in the same position for close to a half hour.

"They m-must be l-lookin' for us," Green says shakily over the chatter of his teeth while he held Eevee's small body tight to his narrow chest. "Get up, Red..."

Red, who had gone almost completely despondent an hour before, makes it onto his feet with considerable difficulty, and Green has to grab his hand in his own to help him up. Even when Red is standing, Green doesn't let go.

"C-C'mon… they're waitin' for us…"

They stumble their way through dense bushes, and Green hisses when some of the leg on his skin is cut open by an errant branch, the thin trail of blood mixing with the rainwater in thick, pink rivulets. Sloshing their way through the mud with the pokémon shivering in their thin arms, Green and Red limp their way home, finally breaking through into a clearing…

Only to find that home is the furthest thing from what lies in wait for them.

Instead of finding a group of their neighbors and family members, the boys encounter a pair of strange men in black uniform. With their backs turned to them, the men seem intent on speaking curtly into a small device, which occasionally crackles with another clipped voice.

At the sight of the strangers, Eevee tenses in his arms, some of the fur along its spine bristling. In Red's arms, Pikachu seems to do the same, letting out a low, keening sound. Green dismisses the signs though, stepping forward.

But Red's grip on his hand grows vice-like, preventing him.

"What are you doing?" Green hisses.

Red is staring at the men, alarm and tension written into every feature, just like the pokémon. "They're strangers," the boy states.

He means to say more, means to say that they are _dangerous_, that they _mean them harm._ But Red is only seven-years-old and does not know how to articulate what his instincts and pokémon companions are screaming at him.

So Green, far too desperate for food and warmth and dry clothes to listen to his own smothered instincts, ignores him.

Tearing his hand from Red's grip, Green steps forward into the clearing, ignoring both Eevee's and Pikachu's alarmed cries.

The men turn at the sound of crunching leaves, eyes narrowed, white-gloved hands at their belts threateningly. Even when greeted by the sight of two shivering children, their clothes waterlogged and hair sticking to their pale foreheads, they do not drop the posture, eyes intent with something Green cannot quite recognize.

After a moment of staring, one of the men relaxes, stands up straight. He is tall and lean, and his eyes are sharp like the mean old fearow that roosts in his grandfather's barn. The look makes Green feel uncomfortable, and he suddenly understands why Eevee is baring its teeth and growling, why Red seemed so desperate to keep him from making their presence known.

"Well, well," the man says, and his voice is high and reedy, mocking. "What have we here?"

"W-we're j-just –" Green begins, but the words catch in his throat when the second man, large and barrel-chested, answers for him.

"Looks like two li'l boys all lost in the big bad forest," the big man leers, a matching smirk twisting his thin lips. "And with rare pokémon to boot."

Green's eyes dart to the big man's chest, widening at the sight of the scarlet 'R' that is emblazoned over the black fabric. Daisy says he's not supposed to watch the grown-up news, but Green does anyway, watching with bated breath from the staircase when she and his grandfather turn it on at night when he's supposed to be in bed. It's because of this that he knows just what the 'R' means.

There is a hand on his again, and it is Red, speaking louder than he's ever heard before. "We got lost," he says. "We're just trying to find our way back home. We'll go away now."

Red tugs at his hand, pulling him back towards the safety of the shrubbery, but the men both step forward, making Red freeze.

"Now, now, kids," the reedy one says, tone pseudo-soothing, "why are you gonna run off so soon?" Green registers that while the big one walks straight for them, the speaker starts circling around, cutting off their only avenue of escape. "Don't you want us to help you find your way back home?"

"We're not supposed to talk to strangers," Red replies.

They laugh at that, mocking and cruel.

"You can trust us," the big one insists.

But Red shakes his head, eyes narrowed in a manner that a seven-year-old shouldn't know how to pull off. "We can find our way back."

Both men are standing on either side of them now, each about ten meters away. "You aren't going anywhere."

They begin closing in slowly, like a predator closing in on its prey.

Green's heart is in his throat. "W-w-what do you want?" he says, hoping it sounds more like a demand and less like a supplication. "I… I'm – my grandpa is really, really i-important… He can – can – reward y-you if you take us back –"

More laughter.

"But we already have a reward in mind," the big one says, seven meters away now.

From behind them, the other one says, "Hand over your pokémon and we'll let you go."

"No," Red says, "they're not yours."

Where's the boy who can't decide between his friends, the boy who cries at the slightest provocation?

"Then we'll just _take 'em_!"

Eevee's growl morphs into a guttural snarl, and it is tearing out of Green's slack grip and onto the forest floor in an instant, standing between Green and the barrel-chested man. Pikachu jumps from its perch on Red's arm too, throwing itself in front of the reedy one, cheeks sparkling menacingly.

"So it's a battle you want, huh?" the barrel-chested man says over his partner's laugh. "You're barely old enough to tie yer own shoelaces."

Nevertheless, both men pluck poké balls from their belts, predatory smirks still in place.

A long moment passes, and Red turns around to face the man at their backs, pressing his back to Green's shivering one. He is too terrified to be embarrassed by his show of weakness, too frozen by what he remembers of the stories of _Team Rocket_ to even think about getting away.

Thunder rumbles ominously in the distance…

Then, in tandem, the poké balls are thrown onto the ground, jerking to life and revealing a couple of raticate. "Hyper fang!" they yell.

Behind him, Red jerks spastically, and Pikachu lets out a cry. At the sight of the raticate charging Eevee, fangs bared, Green finally finds his voice, the adrenaline pouring into his veins making his heart beat in his ears, the sound nearly deafening.

"Get outta the way, Eevee!" Green cries.

Eevee tenses and jumps to the side, just barely avoiding the raticate's jaws. Quickly, Green pores over all the pokémon battles he watched on TV.

"Tackle!" he yells, and Eevee responds. She darts forward and collides with the raticate head-on, causing it to let out a startled hiss and is sent reeling to the floor.

The big man roars, "Why you _little_ – use quick attack!"

Before Green even opens his mouth to tell Eevee to dodge, the raticate has already made its move, making Eevee cry out as it's hit.

"_Eevee!_"

"Now finish it, Raticate! Use hyper fang!"

Red jerks against his back again, his entire body coiling like an ekans about to strike.

Many things happen at once.

The raticate lunges at Eevee, but out of the corner of his eye, Green sees a flash of yellow against the gray sky.

"_Piiii… kaaaa –"_

"Not in the rain –"

"_Chu!_"

Lightning strikes, quickly and furiously, jumping from raindrop to raindrop from Pikachu's pouches, igniting the entire area in a flash of blinding yellow light. Both raticate are struck by the attack, and let out cries of pain as the electricity courses through its system. Belatedly, Green turns his gaze upward to see Pikachu in the air, scrunched up in concentration, eyes closed, as the electricity courses out of its tiny body, almost as if it were suspended in midair.

And then it's over.

The light fades as quickly as it appeared, and Pikachu plummets back down to the ground, landing on its four paws but breathing hard, exhausted. Eevee lets out a small whine and makes it onto its feet with some difficulty, staring down the raticate that had, just moments before, been charging at it furiously. Both raticate are on the ground, their bodies nearly buried in the mud.

Green's breath catches in his throat_. I__t's over._

"We won," Red says, and his voice seems to burn with the same intensity Green saw in his eyes, furious and unstoppable, like the superheroes on Saturday morning cartoons. "Now let us go home."

For a few seemingly endless moments, the Rockets do nothing, frozen in shock as they stare dumbly at the little yellow rodent that took down their higher leveled pokémon.

Then:

Another flash of light, and two other raticate appear, snarling at them ferociously.

Green's heart almost stops.

Against his back, Red tenses again.

"You got lucky, you little brats," the big Rocket snarls, "but it won't happen again!"

"R-Red…" Green chokes out.

"Hyper fang! Aim for the jugular!"

But the raticate aren't going for their pokémon this time. They're aiming for _them_, following the direction of their trainers' pointer fingers_._

Green raises his arms against the attack, and both Eevee and Pikachu let out terrified cries, leaping to intercept the charging raticate –

_He… he doesn't want to die… he can't die, he can't, he—_

There is the single, faint sound of snapping fingers.

The earth rumbles and tears open beneath the raticate, swallowing them whole with a terrible roar that eclipses their cries and the sound of the Rockets' screams of terror. The shaking of the earth knocks both Red and Green off their feet and face-first into the mud. Eevee lets out a strangled cry as the ground around it gives way. Looking around frantically, it sets its eyes on the sturdy patch of earth that Green and Red are on, and with a desperate cry, it flings itself across the fissure, just barely making it over and onto the edge. Its paws scramble frantically for purchase as it hangs over the maw, and the high-pitched whines it makes drills into the boys' ears. Green braces his feet against the mud and throws himself forward. As he lands on his stomach, all the air in his lungs leaves him in a great whoosh, but he reaches forward blindly, hands finding and closing over Eevee's paws and pulling it up and into his arms.

When it licks at his mud-caked face frantically, gratefully, Green finds that he can breathe again.

"W-what the hell just happened?" the big Rocket yells, confused and indignant.

There is the sound of footsteps against the wet ground, and the sound of an austere, authoritative voice, rings clear over all other sounds in the clearing.

"Assaulting a pair of children?" the newcomer says. The way he speaks makes it clear that it's a statement, not a question. "Absolutely disgusting. Such behavior is unbefitting and disparaging of the name of this organization."

Green expects the men to yell some more, to try and hurt the newcomer like they tried with them, but instead there is the distinctive sound of twin, sharp intakes of breath, the telltale sound of knees sinking into the mud.

"S-sir! We apologize sir, we had no idea –"

"Silence," the man says. "You are a disgrace, and I fully intend to have the two of you punished for your actions."

The Rockets fall silent, and when Green looks up, he catches sight of their savior.

The first thing he notices is the enormous, ferocious-looking nidoking that stands beside the newcomer with its fierce beady eyes locked on the men, reinforcing its trainer's threat.

Even beside the behemoth of a nidoking, the man looks tall and broad-shouldered, imposing in a way that that Green has never known was possible. He is nothing like his grandfather, who crosses his arms and yells whenever he is angry. The man didn't even raise his voice throughout the whole ordeal. He had spoken levelly, calmly, yet each word had been infused with measured amounts of venom, each dose equally as paralyzing and lethal as the last.

It is still raining, but he looks impeccable in his dark suit, the wet material clinging tightly to his body and accentuating the sharp angles of his chest, the sturdy muscles of his arms. He does not shiver against the cold, nor does he resemble a drowned rat like Green and Red do. Everything about him speaks of power, control.

The most striking thing about him, however, is his eyes. They are dark and sharp, imposing. They seem to carry the same authority his body does, all the power and venom concentrated in the pinpoints of his pupils, the gravity of his stare.

In that moment, Green is smitten with the man. He registers the 'R' emblazoned over his heart, but it does not alarm him like it did on their assailants. This man doesn't need the 'R' to inspire fear. He can do that with a single snap of his fingers, the briefest of glances from his eyes.

And he is turning those eyes onto Green and Red.

"My apologies, boys," the man says, and his voice mellows into something gracious, almost repentant (except this man never asks for your forgiveness, he simply takes it). "I'm afraid that my men have done you harm."

Red's willingness to speak seems to have disappeared suddenly. Instead, he sits in the grass, Pikachu clutched to his chest, eyes still narrowed. The fire, however, is gone, drowned by the rain.

Green is all too happy to speak in his stead.

"Y-yeah… you should be sorry!" Green replies haughtily (because children always want to see how far they can push adults, even if they are just beginning to worship them as a hero). "You should keep your stupid criminals on a shorter leash."

The man does not seem offended; in fact, he seems amused. "Is that so?" the man asks rhetorically. He nods thoughtfully. "I suppose you are correct in your observation."

Green senses the compliment and beams in response. He feels flushed and proud despite the omnipresent rain, the way his clothes cling to him and sap him of his warmth, and the mud that cakes his skin.

It is unlike anything he has ever felt before yet everything he has always been looking for, better than even the heady rush of schoolyard victories.

The man smiles back, tight-lipped and generous, before snapping his fingers again. The nidoking steps forward, and Green thinks the worst for a second before the man speaks again.

"Allow me to order Nidoking help you out of that predicament." He nods at the fissure surrounding the patch of earth the four of them are on. "You wouldn't want to fall in, I assure you."

Both boys nod – Green enthusiastically, Red much more warily. The nidoking steps over the fissure easily, and with a regal huff, it extends its arm out to the boys, who climb up onto its back shakily. In another moment, it sets the boys and their pokémon companions onto the solid earth gently before making its way back to its trainer.

His dark gaze is on Pikachu now, appraising and considering. Red steps in front of the yellow mouse, meeting the man's gaze with his own, holding it longer than Green would dare.

Something passes between boy and man for a moment…

The latter is the first to look away, turning his gaze onto Green.

"That was an impressive battle. You two have much talent, especially for boys your age."

Green feels the glow permeate every cell in his body again. "We're already pokémon trainers!" he boasts. He hopes that if he lies he can more easily impress this man who has already made such a big impression on him.

He should have known that he could see through them with those eyes of his, though.

"You might as well be," he says after cutting through the lie, dissecting it with a single penetrating stare at – _into_ Green's eyes before he looked away. "You shamed two of my operatives with your quick thinking and persistence. If you were older, I might have offered you a place in my organization. Alas, you are too young."

Green catches himself before he insists that he _isn't_ too young, remembering what exactly he would be agreeing to if he did.

Finally, Red speaks, voice low, cautious. "Will you let us go home now?"

Laughter again, but it is not mocking or cruel this time. It is simply amused.

"Of course, of course," the man says with a nod. "Do you know your way back from here?"

Their silence speaks for itself.

"I'll have someone escort you back, then." He snaps his fingers, and a man appears from the trees, blue-haired and severe in his features, wearing the same black uniform as the first man. Everything in his posture, however, speaks of submission, and it is clear to anyone who the one in command is. "If you tell Archer where you live, he will take you there."

Archer nods and offers the boys a quirk of the lips that is meant to be reassuring but, in reality, is anything but. "By your command, sir."

"Rendezvous at headquarters," he says to Archer. "I will be making my way to Cinnabar Island to see that the specimen makes it to the research team. When I return, I expect a report."

Archer replies with a deferential nod and a murmured 'understood.'

The man turns back towards the boys, gives them another tight-lipped smile. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance…?"

Red refuses to say a thing, staring at the man blankly.

Green, however, has no such misgivings.

"Green," Green says eagerly. "Green Oak."

And when the man's look widens in surprise for a moment, Green is almost sure that he was imagining things again, just like he had with the fire that burned in Red's eyes or the way that Leaf looked at him whenever she thought he wasn't looking, because a second later his eyes have hardened, narrowed, become calculating and cold, before turning toward Archer, meeting his azure gaze with his dark one.

Green realizes far too late just what they have gotten themselves into.

— . . . —

It had not been a good day.

All the excitement had been warranted – preliminary DNA testing had confirmed the authenticity of the specimen and had solidified the wavering feeling in Giovanni's chest into something solid and victorious.

The fact that they had finally found a genuine specimen, however, was belied by just how _small_ that specimen was. The excited murmurs and congratulations had halted when one of the scientists Giovanni had brought with him to examine the fossil had concluded that the specimen did not contain a complete copy of the genome.

Giovanni is not a stupid man by any means. Before he stepped into the role his dead mother had left behind, taking the helm of a fledgling criminal organization that was more interested in petty theft, prostitution, drug trafficking and blackmail than anything concrete, Giovanni had worked at Silph Corporation's Research Department and conducted many of the experiments he was now paying an entire department full of the region's best and brightest to conduct. He knows just how unsuitable an incomplete genome is, especially when you try to use it for the purposes he has in mind.

And with only approximately 70% of the genome present in that little fossilized speck – an _eyelash_, of all things – the cloning process would not go over very well at all.

All at once, the solid feeling of victory in the Boss's chest had sublimated into the air, replaced by a virulent, scalding vapor that leeched out from every pore, threatened to twitch his hand to his belt and call out Nidoking to destroy the excavation site in frustration.

But Giovanni takes pride in being in control of his emotions. It is but one of the many distinctions between him and his mother, who took a sick kind of joy in carving bloody patterns into her subordinates' chests with an ornamental knife as punishment for their failures.

_It would not do to get your hopes up, idiot boy,_ his dear mother often sneered at him affectionately from her crimson throne, _because when you hope, you get stupid and make mistakes._

Giovanni may never have had a good relationship with his mother, but he had taken what he could from her – her cunning, her ruthlessness, the organization she had formed to line her pockets. He had learned from her failures, taken all the words and lessons she had ever deigned to bestow upon him and carefully strained them for what was true. He does not like to say it (he prefers that people assume he is a self-made man who pulled himself up from obscurity and onto the pages of history, remembered for the truth that hides behind the teeth of his smiles, the impeccable manners he had carefully cultivated over the years, the finely pressed suits he wears), but he is very much his mother's son. He is aware of this, and it is because of this that he was able to lead Team Rocket out from under the bloodstained shadow that had been his mother's legacy to give it purpose and vision and _ambition_ beyond insignificant street crimes.

Hope is one of the dastardliest of emotions, promising everything and yielding very little in return, if anything at all. The Boss had learned that from experience; however, he learned early on the idea that pragmatism was one of the foremost qualities a man in his position must exhibit. Despite all this, the tendency to find himself hoping beyond reason about certain things was something that he could never quite do way with no matter how much he had tried to learn it from her over the years.

The reason the feeling of victory had crumbled away so easily was that it had never been solid in the first place; the disappointment he feels now is thusly something of his own creation – no one's fault but his own. Armed with this logic, he is able to contain his fury. He nods curtly at the scientist before ordering the excavation team to continue searching for any other specimens, observing watchfully as the scientist carefully prepares the sample for transport.

Discovering the two boys, however, had signaled a considerable upturn in the events of the day, a windfall of good fortune.

(Yet Giovanni does not believe in fortune. Fortune is something for the fools that spend their days sliding coins into the slot machines of his casino).

Green _Oak._

Surely finding a boy with the same last name as one of the world's most renowned pokémon researchers within a few miles of the man's residence cannot be mere coincidence?

Giovanni's mind processes the new information and its implications quickly. He thinks of the specimen, the missing 30% of the genome that is standing between him and his ultimate ambition, the significant increase in probability that the experiment, missing 30% and all, could actually succeed with someone like Professor Samuel Oak onboard, willingly or not.

In an instant, he has already made his decision.

And perhaps because his mind darts to imagined images of his own son, Giovanni wants to make this as painless as possible for them.

"We can use my helicopter instead," Giovanni says. "It's on its way here now."

The Oak boy's face lights up immediately with excitement, but the silent one's scrunches with the first signs of alarm.

"That sounds so cool," the Oak boy says.

At the same time his friend points at Archer solemnly and says, "I thought you said that he would take us back."

The sardonic, slightly bitter upward twitch of the Boss's lips is the kind of expression men wear when they've been outwitted, but his frustration is masked easily by the consummate smile. This reaction, cultivated over the years, is nearly always enough to fool even the most discerning of men, but judging by the look on the red-eyed boy's face, he _knows._

"Who cares? I wanna go home in a _helicopter, _not walk there!"

"Green…"

"Shut up, Red. Don't be stupid. You're _so_ not cool."

Giovanni watches the silent exchange for a few moments before the whir of a helicopter's blades in the distance becomes audible. He frowns irritably, his patience suddenly having worn itself thin.

"Suit yourself, boy. We'll just take Green home, then," the Boss says, eager to end this tiresome charade. "Come along, Green. Your friend can find his own way back home if he's so set on it."

When Green's face furrows, Giovanni considers the unfortunate possibility that he may very well have to resort to force to get the Oak boy to come with him, but then he is turning to his friend, glaring at him with all the disaffection a eight-year-old can muster (which for _this_ particular eight-year-old seems to be a great deal).

"I'm gonna go with him," the Oak boy says, nose upturned. "You can walk home, stupid."

Simultaneously, the red-eyed boy and the pokémon tense, the eevee beginning to whine almost pleadingly at its trainer and the pikachu glaring at Giovanni distrustfully. The boy – Red – reaches out for Green, grabs his hand in his.

"They're bad people," he says, strangely monotone tinged with an inflection of pleading. "We're not supposed to go with strangers."

Green, however, refuses to meet his friend's eyes, pulling his hand away and walking determinedly across the short distance between Red and Giovanni, and the latter offers him a consummate smile, extending an arm out to him.

When Green's hand tentatively reaches out to clasp the Boss's in a miniature handshake, Giovanni catches sight of Archer giving him a questioning glance out of the corner of his eye. Giovanni knows what the question is without turning his full gaze on his subordinate.

_Should I eliminate the spare?_

And Giovanni knows that his mother would say yes because despite the fact that it is just a child, he can still tell others about the men in black with red 'R's on their chests that took his friend away in a helicopter. Blackmail is a fine art, base in practice yet artful in method. The second anyone other than his intended target finds out just who has the boy, things would get infinitely more complicated for him.

Rationally, he knows that he _should _let Archer handle the other boy. He's an extraneous variable, a confound that could throw a wrench in his plans for the Oaks. Giovanni may be many things, but one thing he is not, nor does he ever intend to be, is a child murderer.

He differs from his mother in that as well.

So Giovanni opens his mouth to give the order, but Red never gives him the chance to.

At the sight of Green's back turned to him, the boy seems to crumple in on himself, the seemingly unshakeable resolve he had been in possession of mere moments ago having disappeared.

And so it is that, biting his lip and ignoring the pleading cries of the pokémon, Red follows Green across the clearing. He comes to a stop a couple of feet away from Giovanni, eyes turned to the ground.

The pokémon follow balefully shortly thereafter, giving Giovanni and Nidoking wary, distrustful looks and settling near the boys' feet protectively.

Giovanni smiles his tight-lipped smile and looks up at the sky as the helicopter appears over them, whipping the rain and air around them in a frenzy. While the boys and their pokémon are herded onboard the sleek black aircraft, Giovanni turns to recall Nidoking, giving Archer a perfunctorily curt nod in the process. With a responding nod, Archer turns towards the two errant grunts, an eerie half-smile on his handsome face.

No, Giovanni thinks as he climbs aboard the helicopter himself, he is not a child killer. He certainly doesn't condone men who do that, however. For animals like that, there truly is no sympathy.

Sitting himself in the fine leather seat nearest the cockpit, Giovanni tells the pilot their destination. Keeping watch over the anxious boys in the seats behind him, the Boss of Team Rocket turns his mind to the future and the fulfillment of his plans.

Perhaps not being pragmatic makes him more prone to disappointment and frustration, but it is also what gives his organization its ambition, its purpose, what separates it from the band of criminals he had inherited from his mother.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and the boys jump fearfully in their seat, eyes wide as the helicopter makes its way south, towards the odious black clouds that mar the sky and make the sea churn hungrily.

By the time the Oak boy begins asking questions ("Hey, our house isn't _this_ way!"), they are already halfway across the ocean, and the pokémon confined to their poké balls where they cannot do any harm.

_Soon…_

* * *

><p><em>AN: The inspiration for this came from a prompt over on the Pokémon Big Bang community on LiveJournal, so special thanks go out to the poster of that prompt. I hope you find what I've done with this piece to be to your satisfaction._

_I am currently writing the third installment of this fic (Act II), which is about 85% done. Taking the beta/editing process into account, I should have Act II ready in time for the third update. From there, it gets a bit tricky. RL issues have been the primary cause of delays so far, but my expectations for this fic have played into it as well. I keep layering more and more writing onto it. For example, Acts II and III were originally supposed to be a single chapter... Nevertheless, I'm hoping to be done with this fic by the beginning of December._

_While I don't have a pristine track record with actually finishing the long-fics I post on here, I want you to know that I have every intention of finishing this fic. I have never been so serious about a project before, nor have I had one that is quite as demanding. Despite that, I've truly enjoyed writing this, and I hope it shows._

_As always, thanks go out to my readers. Thank you for taking the time to read this chapter. Reviews and feedback are always appreciated!_

_Thank you again, and remember to return next Monday for Act I!_

_EDIT: Fixed an inconsistency regarding Silver's age here in the Prologue with Act II._


	2. Act I

_Notes: As promised, here's the second installment of this piece. I hope you enjoy reading it!_

_Chapter-specific warnings: language, violence, child and pokémon abuse, dark themes._

__Disclaimer: Pokémon - its characters, setting, and all other borrowed elements - is the sole property of its creators. I am not profiting from this in any form.__

* * *

><p><em>Act I<em>

The story of Professor Oak's missing grandson is being blasted across the airwaves by every major news station the next day and every day after that.

There are televised statements from the neighbors, which mostly consist of touching scenes of the townspeople standing outside Oak Labs to show their support.

Most notable of these interviews is the one of a woman holding her sobbing daughter tight in her arms, looking as if she was just barely restraining her own tears.

"Those boys were – _are_ my daughter's friends. She misses them." She hesitates for a moment before looking directly into the camera. "Just the thought of my daughter being lost out there with them – if she hadn't come home and had gone with them instead – I can't even imagine how it would feel… Please – help us find them," she chokes out, barely audible over the sound of her daughter's intensifying cries.

Eventually, the family makes a statement, and a girl who looks more like the boy's sister than his mother speaks tearfully. The professor himself stands behind her, a hand placed comfortingly on her shoulder, his face stern.

"Please," she begs, voice thick with tears, "if a-anyone knows where they are, please bring them h-home. He – they _need _to come home." She pauses, and the tears begin to flow unrestrainedly now. "Please… he's all I have left… _please._"

It's media gold.

There was little emphasis played on the other boy's mother, who was leaning into Oak's side, crying the whole time. They only played a sound bite of her tearful statement at the very end of the report, but by that time Giovanni had already turned off the television, his upper lip curled around his cigarette in disgust.

Archer watches from his seat across the Boss's desk, jaw set and eyes wary.

"I had no idea the goddamn media would take so much interest in this," Giovanni all but snarls, hanging onto his dignity by the coattails.

"None of us could have predicted this would happen, sir."

The darkness of the Boss's eyes deepens in anger, flashing dangerously.

"That is no excuse," he snaps, tendrils of smoke steaming from his flaring nostrils. "Our advantage is lost to us now. We cannot contact Oak to make our demands when the police are so intimately involved in the situation! Claiming responsibility for this would increase our visibility to a degree that is unacceptable in these early stages."

Archer understands. It wouldn't do to trade one advantage for another, especially not one as valuable as this one. Knowledge of Team Rocket is still rather hard to come by these days, with the police only recently starting to realize that their motives and operations may run deeper than making a quick buck.

This false assumption is possibly the most valuable inheritance the Boss had received from his predecessor.

The long years that Madame Boss was in charge led the police to the correct assumption that the organization was just a typical den of thieves. They believed the Rockets posed a similar threat to that of a few rabid rattata. Sure, it was unfortunate if someone got bitten, but it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed with a few shots of potent vaccine and a call to the exterminator. There were bigger fish to fry anyway, so the law had deigned to only deal with the Rockets on a case-by-case basis, basically leaving Madame Boss and her Rockets to their own devices.

Archer and Ariana had been newly recruited grunts when the old bat finally keeled over and died, leaving behind a couple hundred members whose only allegiance was to themselves. Being of similar intentions at the time, Archer and Ariana had often discussed deserting before the inevitable power struggle between the administrators and executives started and they were forced to take sides. After all, the life of the solitary criminal, though riskier than running with a pack, was preferable to the degradation of fighting for power-grubbing bureaucrats. It simply wasn't a productive use of their time.

But that was when the Boss took over.

Archer remembers being skeptical at the thought of the scientist from Silph Corporation leading an organization like Team Rocket. When the rumors that his mother had disowned him began to spread, his skepticism was distilled into incredulity. The story behind their falling out varied depending on who exactly was asked, but one of the most surprisingly persistent rumors held that it was due to his refusal to end a drawn out summer romance when she ordered him to.

Back then, Archer and Ariana had considered the rumor to be a particularly entertaining notion. They used to take a base enjoyment in snickering about the new leader and his years-long roll in the hay with the country bumpkin behind his back. It was so comical that when a few of the other grunts had started a betting ring around the question of how long he would last before the Madame's old cadres deposed him, Archer and Ariana had thrown their caps into the ring. Archer had bet a moderate amount on a solid year; Ariana had wagered two month's pay on a meager six months.

And then the purges had started.

One morning, the Madame's executives and admins were found dead, a single bullet buried in each of their skulls. There was none of the pomp and circumstance that the she'd employed whenever she had someone killed, yet even without the sight of the corpses of her victims put on display at general assemblies as examples of what became of "traitors" (the term having a very loose definition in the Madame's day), the new Boss's executions made more of an impact. Nearly a dozen of Team Rocket's leaders, most of them in power as long as the Madame herself, were wiped out all at once. The move was bold, indicative of cunning, power, and ruthlessness. It made a statement much more profound than even the Madame could have hoped to aspire to.

With a dozen bullets, the Boss made his position clear: all the power the newly retired pencil pushers had accumulated by exploiting the old bureaucracy was meaningless before his own. He was not dependent on admins or execs to give orders to the different factions; whoever did not follow his orders was handled in the same manner as the cadres.

Gone were the secretive snickering and betting rings. Their absence was not yet an indication of respect but fear – the only message some members of the organization could understand.

The next seven years were defined by efficiency, ambition, and grand goals. The Boss gave Team Rocket purpose and ambition, but above all, he gave it honor and pride. There were unspoken codes of conduct that all members were expected to live by: rape was not a method that the organization employed; accordingly, a special punishment was reserved for those found to be rapists. If an operation necessitated an innocent person's death, it was to be carried out swiftly and painlessly. Rockets did not turn on other Rockets – snitches, when discovered (and they always were), were left to the mercy of their fellow Rockets.

They were more soldiers than criminals under Giovanni's leadership, a cohesive group working together toward accomplishing the organization's noble goals. No matter what the public thought of them, this was always something the Boss took care to reinforce.

Ariana had scoffed at this in the early days, but she soon came to be awed by _him_ instead. Archer shared this reaction – it is rather difficult not to when confronted by someone like Giovanni.

It had taken a little under four months for the two of them to be noticed by the Boss. The particular job that had garnered them the recognition was an intelligence-gathering mission in the Saffron City Police Department. With the sterling new credentials the organization had provided for her, Ariana had gotten a job as the chief of police's secretary. Archer had posed as a delivery boy.

He still looks back on that time fondly – Ariana, looking classy and professional in her knee-length skirts and deceptively modest blouses, forced to act demure and polite to get into the chief's good graces. She hadn't even had to get into the old man's bed; he had fallen all over himself _trying_ to get her there that he'd inadvertently given her access to all the intelligence they had been ordered to retrieve and more.

Even better than that was how Archer had gotten to present the man with the terms of their arrangement at the end of their time together. Ariana had looked on, smirking placidly as Archer laid out the countless pictures of the chief's liaisons with women who certainly weren't his wife. Secretaries and other employees, even prostitutes.

Surely he didn't want his wife or the press to know, Archer had said. They'd eat him alive!

When the man blubbered and agreed to provide them with anything they wanted, Ariana had been unable to contain her mirth, and a cruel laugh spilled from her ruby-red lips. Archer had merely smirked.

(Perhaps the most enjoyable part of that mission was months later, when the chief was beginning to get testy, chewing at his tight leash. He knew too much and was letting his conscience get the better of him. Archer was surprised; he expected the man to be too self-involved to value the well-being of the pokémon they had appropriated from errant trainers that wandered into unpatrolled alleyways, especially over his career.

Archer had put him down quickly because of that. He'd outgrown his usefulness anyway, what with the new mayor's intentions of replacing him).

When they had returned to headquarters after two months of undercover work, the Boss had called them into his office and regarded them with a dark-eyed stare of appraisal.

"I've read your report. You'll excuse me if I found it a bit hard to believe at first. Somehow two new recruits have managed to extract a multitude of reliable information from the Saffron Police Department _and_ cultivate a reliable asset – the chief of police, no less?" their leader had said. "Team Rocket is very fortunate to have you."

Archer and Ariana had immediately fallen to their knees to pledge their loyalty. The Boss had laughed, the sound booming and appreciative.

"You would never betray me, would you?"

"Never, sir!" they had returned in unison.

Higher-ranked missions followed, and after a half a year of these, the promotions came – operative-issue uniforms and desks. They became known as _Apollo _and _Athena_, gods among men.

The Boss was a man of many tastes, appreciative of both Ariana's unparalleled talents in the field and cutting, curvaceous beauty, dangerous and wild.

In Archer he saw both an invaluable operative, skilled in deception and subterfuge, and a loyal devotee. For all the people he has deceived and betrayed into turning over their inheritances and tightly guarded information, Archer has never – _would never,_ lie to Giovanni. The Boss knows this. He can see the devotion in Archer's eyes, fervent and unyielding. He trusts Archer implicitly, and even though his uniform is still not the white of the Executive rank, he is already his right-hand man.

So maybe any other operative in his position would feel as if the Boss were berating him for the situation. Archer, however, has served his leader long enough to know that the Boss is a fair judge of character and does not make it a habit of passing the blame onto others to save face.

It is but one of the many characteristics that make Archer adore and serve him out of devotion and admiration rather than self-interest.

"What do you wish me to do with the children, sir?" he asks.

The Boss's head snaps up. He regards his subordinate flatly through the cloud of acrid smoke.

"Would you have me return them to their families?" Archer hedges, voice the slightest bit hesitant. "Or perhaps you would rather I dispose of –,"

"No," the Boss interrupts firmly, eyes steely with reproach, "that won't be necessary."

Child-killers are something else that Team Rocket does not tolerate. Their punishment is even more severe than the kind given out to the rapists.

There is a pregnant pause, and Archer berates himself for acting as if the Boss were no different from a typical criminal. He may lead a criminal organization, but Archer knows that the Boss has a moral code that he refuses to cross, no matter the circumstances.

It only makes Archer adore him all the more.

"I apologize –" he begins.

But his understanding leader waves him off, tapping some of the ash off his cigarette and into the ashtray on his desk.

"There's no need for that, Archer. I understand your concerns."

There is another long moment of silence, this one considerably less tense than the last, before the Boss addresses him again.

"Train them."

He doesn't understand. "Sir?"

"Train them," the Boss repeats, turning his attention to a stack of reports on his desk disinterestedly. "They displayed extraordinary talent in battling when we discovered them. It would be a shame to see all that talent go to waste." Amusement glints in his eyes now. "Perhaps in a few years they will be valuable assets to Team Rocket. It's a fairly equitable compensation for the loss of our advantage."

And he still does not understand _why_ he would want this from him, but his leader's full attention is on the reports, now. The cigarette has been stubbed out onto the ashtray, still smoking faintly.

It is not his place to ask 'why.'

So he rises, salutes.

"Of course, sir."

Giovanni nods without looking up from the papers. "You may leave."

Years later, Archer will have but a second to wonder where exactly it was that he had gone wrong.

— . . . —

It has been three days since they were taken, but it feels more like an eternity to Green.

He hasn't seen anyone but Red since they arrived at – wherever the place they're at now is. Immediately after they helicopter had touched down, the man had fired off orders at a woman before walking off without another word to the boys.

The woman had led them down long and winding hallways that made Green think of the labyrinth from a movie he'd watched once. Fearfully, he wondered where the monster with the head of a tauros was.

When they finally reached a door, the lady had all but shoved the boys, still filthy from the rain and mud, into the room beyond the threshold. She snatched Eevee's and Pikachu's poké balls away from them before slamming the door shut. At the heart-stopping sound of a key twisting in the handle, Green had started banging on the door with his tiny fists, screaming frantically for help. Red had just made his way over to one of the two beds, the one furthest from the door, and lain down on his side facing away from Green.

They had been left alone ever since.

Green's cries had accomplished nothing save leaving his throat swollen and aching. Someone had been by to leave them dinner the night before and breakfast early that morning (so early that they'd woken Green up with a start; Red had already been staring at the door, unperturbed), but whoever was doing it was so quick that the food was always deposited on the floor by the door before Green could get a good look at them.

It doesn't help their situation any that Red refuses to talk to him, looking away whenever he tries to start some sort of conversation. Surely Red understands that the man _tricked_ Green? He can't be blamed for that, especially when he had a giant nidoking that could make the earth swallow them up with a snap of his trainer's elegant fingers.

Red, Green concludes, is just _stupid_. It is the harshest insult his eight-year-old mind can conjure up, and he thinks it furiously, glaring at the back of the other boy's head from across the room, imagining that the force of his thoughts alone could set his dumb, stupid head on fire.

(So when Red starts making small wet sounds that first night, body shaking in the sheets, Green just grits his teeth and thinks _good._)

The hours trudge by, and Green finds himself growing increasingly distressed. Isolation does not suit him at all. He has become accustomed to the wide-open spaces of Pallet's fields – of having acres and acres as his backyard. The four windowless walls of their prison saps his strength and fill his young mind with an agitation that he has never experienced before, not even when his mommy and daddy started fighting every night and Daisy would sneak into his room, hiding her tears in the downy hair at the back of his head.

At first he fights it. Even though Red is mad at him and all the terms and rules he'd come to know about dealing with his surroundings (avoid grandpa and you won't get in trouble, pretend to cry and Daisy will let you have your way, call Leaf a stupid girl and she'll get so angry she'll leave you alone, just lead and Red will follow) no longer apply, he still has his pride. This is the second time in his short life that this has happened to him, and Green finds himself more lost than the first time. He doesn't have Daisy to smile at him and tell him that everything will be alright (even if it won't), and despite that the peculiar neighbor boy with the dull red eyes is in the same predicament as he is, it feels like he's billions of miles away.

So after he finishes his breakfast, his valiant efforts at holding it all in falter.

He is in the middle of picking some of the caked mud off his skin when it happens; one second he is sliding his stubby nails under a particularly stubborn patch of dirt and the next his vision goes blurry. It takes him a few moments to realize that the burning means that he is _crying_, that the terrible sounds he hears are coming from _him_.

The intensity of the emotions that wash over him is too overwhelming for him to worry about looking weak in front of Red. His sobs bounce off the whitewashed walls, echoing back into his ears, and all he can think is that he wants his_ sister_, his_ mommy_, his_ daddy. _He cries thoughtlessly for what seems like days before he falls into a shallow, dreamless sleep.

When he wakes up, he finds Red in bed with him, small body tucked in against his own. The hand whose thumb isn't stuck in his mouth is clamped tightly around Green's abdomen.

The older boy blinks, body tense. He is not quite sure if he should forgive Red for being mean to him earlier. Something about this feels wrong – the way his body's lanky, bony angles sink into Red's soft form, still pudgy with the baby fat that Green lost far too early. There is something else, something fundamental and binding, but he cannot quite put his finger on what exactly that reason is, or even why he should feel that way.

After a few minutes of this the doubts fall away and he gives in thankfully. He is too exhausted to deny any kind of comfort, even if it isn't from the people he'd been crying so desperately for before.

The man from before – Archer – finds them like this.

When the door opens abruptly, both boys jerk up, their muscles tense and eyes wide with fear. The man regards them with a smug expression on his face, tinged with something else that reminds Green of how Leaf used to look whenever she found him first when they played hide-and-go-seek. It makes Green unbearably homesick and annoyed at the same time, and he glares at the man with all the defiance he can muster.

It only serves to add a muted sort of amusement to the man's dark azure eyes.

"What do _you_ want?" Green sneers. He does not like this man and feels compelled to make sure he knows this.

"My name is Archer," the man says, voice clipped and business-like, "but from now on you will address me as _sir_."

Riled up at how the man avoided the question, Green makes a fist around the bed sheets. "No."

The only sign of annoyance Archer gives is the minute twitch of his eyebrow. "It seems like respect was something you were never taught. Your deficiency of common sense, however, is something you came into this world lacking."

Green may not understand _how_ the man is doing it, but he knows that he is being insulted. "Are you sayin' I'm dumb?" he demands, his cheeks flushed underneath the dirt caked there.

A smile, sardonic and all teeth.

"You can say that."

The blood running through his veins burns, but before he can open his mouth to retort, Red whispers, "_Green_."

There is a warning hidden beneath the otherwise monotone voice, and Green clamps his mouth shut, glaring at the other man with all the hatred he can muster.

After a moment of tense silence, Archer nods, satisfied.

"Much better. Now, assuming you can remember to stay quiet and respectful**—**" He pauses, staring pointedly at Green. "**—**the two of you will follow me. If you even so much as say one word out of turn, however, you will be returned to this room until I feel you've learned your lesson. Do you understand?"

Green is practically aching to talk back, but when Red elbows him in the side, he grits out a bitter "yes."

Archer raises an eyebrow. "Yes…?"

"Sir," Red supplies, voice small and cracked, still rough from sleep. "Yes, sir."

The Rocket nods approvingly. "You can stand to learn something from your friend, kid," he says before turning on his heel and marching out of the room.

Red grips Green's hand, the knuckles nearly white, and pulls him off the bed. They pause at the open door, almost as if they were considering the possibility that this were all a trick. It is more likely that they are scared of what lies in wait for them outside the relative safety of their prison, the memory of the men who had attacked them in the forest and their fearsome raticate alerting them to the frightening reality that this place was probably full of men just like them.

"Would you rather stay in there?" Archer asks, stopping to look back at them questioningly.

Taking a deep breath, Green grits his teeth and takes his first step over the threshold with Red in tow, small hands grasping each other, their fingers pressing harshly into the soft skin of their palms.

Archer ends up leading them to a large, low-ceilinged room unlike any they had ever seen. When he notices the sinks and urinals, white and pristine, much like his grandfather's lab, he realizes that it is some kind of big bathroom.

The Rocket leans onto the edge of a porcelain sink, regarding them with distaste. "The two of you are filthy," he points out, wrinkling his nose. "Clean yourselves up."

The boys stare at the man for a few moments, almost as if they can't quite comprehend what it is he's asking of them. Archer sighs softly, raising his hands to his head to massage at his temples in soothing circles.

"The showers are that way," he says impatiently, gesturing beyond the wall of urinals, past the faucets and stalls. "Make use of them. You have ten minutes."

Before Red can open his mouth to say that he's never taken a bath by himself, Green pulls him along to where Archer indicated, flushing in embarrassment.

The showers look like the ones attached to the locker rooms of the local middle school Daisy attended, except a lot cleaner and lacking the pungent stale smell that lingered there. With the abandon that only young boys possess, Green begins to undress, bending over to untie his muddy shoes. Red stares in something vaguely resembling terror before doing the same, small hands tugging at the hem of his t-shirt and pulling it up and over his head, leaving his hair in a state of disarray. Despite the fact that they had gone swimming together plenty of times before, there is something about the room that makes them avert their eyes and turn their dirty bodies away, ashamed. The tile beneath their bare feet is cold, and they stiffly make their way from their discarded clothes to one of the showerheads.

After fiddling with the knobs for a few moments, the showerhead roars to life, shooting out a jet of cold water that buffets Green in the head. Yelping at the painful sensation of the cold high-pressure water stream against his scalp, he lowers his head to protect his eyes, leaving the water to scrape at the crown of his head. It takes a few torturous moments for the frigid water to warm to a tolerable temperature, and Green and Red go from shivering in the spray to yelping at the heat. In minutes, the showers are filled with a thick, cloying steam.

Slowly, feeling returns to Green's body as the layers of dirt and mud are peeled away and the numbness that had lingered there beforehand are drowned in the thousands of tiny knives that prick against his skin and muscles.

The boys just stand in the spray for several moments, occasionally opening their mouths and drinking the warm water, scalding against their sore, swollen throats. They drink until their bellies are full, spreading warmth so that their bodies begin to tingle with life.

The water is turned off abruptly.

"Your ten minutes are up!" calls Archer's voice from down the hall, a ring of impatience hanging like a threat.

When they reluctantly make their way back, Archer greets them with a disinterested look and new clothes that turn out to be a few sizes too large.

"We don't exactly have many operatives your size," he says by way of explanation. "Until we can procure clothes in your size, you'll just have to make do with these."

Red seems to have a small crisis when he sees the 'R' on his shirt, eyes flashing with instinctual repulsion. In the end, necessity wins when he begins to shiver again. When he pulls on the black uniform, he does it in a manner that suggests extreme discomfort.

If Green shares his friend's apprehensiveness, he doesn't show it. The older boy steps into the offered clothes almost gratefully.

When the boys are dressed, Archer signals for them to follow him again, leading them back into the maze. It is hard for them to keep up with the man's long strides. They trip over the legs of their oversized pants that drag behind them a few times in their efforts to keep their guide in sight.

They eventually come to a door that looks identical to the one that had kept them locked in for the past two days. Green sets his eyes on it with dread, expecting to be tossed back into the suffocating little room, but when Archer turns the handle and opens it, the sight that greets them is nothing like the room.

The room is easily the biggest Green has ever set foot in. Its ceiling is high and the walls widely spaced apart. There is a familiar pattern on the floor – a wide rectangle with two smaller ones inscribed along the shorter sides and a circle drawn in the middle. It is an arena – not quite the size of the ones used for the tournament matches on the television, but large enough to warrant the boys' slack-jawed awe.

"This is one of our training rooms," Archer says. "It's usually reserved for the higher-ups of the organization, but the Boss has relegated its use to us for the foreseeable future. The two of you will be spending a lot of time in here from now on, so I suggest that you become acquainted with it quickly."

"Why?" At the man's quirk of an eyebrow, Green tacks on a rushed "sir" to the end of his question.

"The Boss has requested that the two of you be trained and has placed me in charge of your… cultivation as Team Rocket operatives."

Something cold and tight grips Green's heart at the man's words. Red, naturally quiet and still, goes tense, crimson eyes flashing dully with alarm.

Seeing the expression on their faces, Archer barks out a chuckle.

"Now, now. It's not the end of the world. I assure you that being personally requested for service by the Boss is a great honor, though I'm sure that you two don't view it as such. Yet. There will be time for the two of you to learn what it means to wear the uniform of the organization and work to bring our goals to fruition. The Boss has assigned me to be your teacher in this regard, and I fully intend to carry out my duties. Let my example serve as your first lesson." He makes eye contact with both children, blue eyes steely and severe. "Always follow orders. Failure and insubordination are not tolerated."

Green barely processes Archer's words. His narrow back is suddenly drenched in a cold sweat, and his throat has become tight.

They mean to transform them into criminals, he thinks. Like the ones from that almost killed them in the forest. Like the ones that he sees on the news, hunted by the police and hated by everyone.

He can barely process the thought. He is not _bad_. He can't be a criminal. He wants to be the Pokémon League Champion; he can't do that if he lets them make him a criminal. He can't be a criminal. He's just a kid. Kids can't be criminals. They're crazy if they think kids – _Green and Red_ – can ever be criminals.

"I – I – I," he stutters, mouth gone dry. "I want… I _can't_…"

"What you want," the man interrupts curtly, tone brooking no argument, "is irrelevant."

Something wild flares in Green's chest and spreads through his blood to the rest of his body, makes him lightheaded and heedless of the man's warnings. "I don't want to be one of you! I want to go home! Take me home! _Take us –"_

Before he can process the dwindling distance between him and Archer, he feels the crack of a fist against his cheek. With a mangled yelp, he is thrown to the floor with the force of the punch, landing facedown, his mouth half-open against the tile.

A snarl tears its way out of Red's throat, animalistic and uncontrolled, and he lunges at Archer, who swats him away with the back of his hand almost effortlessly. Red does not make a sound, nor does he fall to the ground from the force of the blow like Green did. Instead he gets back up and charges the man again, who extends his arm and grabs him by the forehead, keeping him at arm's length. Red snarls again as his feet pedal uselessly at the floor.

"Idiots," Archer hisses, and with a swipe of his arm, he finally sends Red hurtling onto the floor. The boy lets out a cry when he hits the ground, falling silent again when he rolls to a stop on his back, eyes staring at the ceiling listlessly.

Green can only see the floor. Something tastes metallic and coppery in his mouth. His head is pounding. What just… he didn't…

"Willful little brats," Archer mumbles to himself disbelievingly. With a sigh, he straightens out the wrinkles in his uniform. He lays his eyes on Green's sprawled form with distaste. "I already told you that what you want has no bearing on your situation. You belong to Team Rocket. Any and all behavior like the insubordination you two just displayed will be punished _again_ and much more severely than whatever damage I may have inflicted upon the two of you just now."

Still reeling from the blows, the boys don't perceive the sound of Archer's boots against the tile or the sound of the door opening again.

"Your lessons begin tomorrow. Spend the rest of today reflecting on the consequences of your actions."

And with that the door closes, leaving them alone.

Green inhales sharply through his mouth and finds that the air stings the inside of his cheek. Groaning, he props himself up on his arms with some difficulty. When he does, his vision swims violently and the room lurches with it. He feels like throwing up. Blood dribbles from his mouth and onto the back of his hand, and he stares at it dumbly.

"Red…" he calls weakly, not quite trusting himself not to crane his neck around to look at the other boy.

There is no response.

"Red," he repeats, this time with more urgency in his voice. His arms tremble from the strain of his weight. The blood keeps falling in droplets onto his hand – a violent scarlet against the paleness of his skin.

"G-Green…" comes the small reply after a few unbearable moments.

The tight feeling that had been gripping his chest since Archer announced his intentions for them loosens at the sound of Red's voice, if only slightly. Relief washes over Green's body in waves, and his muscles go slack with it. Luckily, he is able to use the last of his strength to push himself into a sitting position before his arms give out from under him. Groggily, he lifts his unstained hand to his mouth. It comes back red.

His vision is still too cloudy to see read clearly. "You – you okay?" he asks, voice trembling despite himself.

Red's answer is the wet sound of a hiccup, a shuddering intake of breath. Green bites his lip at the sound, and hisses when the pain is sharper than he expected. His head feels like a pack of geodude are sitting in it, but he tries getting to his feet anyway. It's hard, but he manages, dizzily dragging his feet, each movement bringing him closer to Red.

When he is close enough, he eases himself down beside the shuddering body.

Green has never been good at this part. Whenever Red cried, he would either tell him to stop being such a girl or stand a few feet away from, hovering awkwardly, until he managed to collect himself.

But things have changed. No one had ever raised their hand to Green before, not even as a threat. He's pretty sure that Red's mom had never even raised her voice at him in a harsh reprimand. Everything is brutally new and foreign, and even though he's just a kid, Green can understand that things can't stay the same.

All they have is each other now. They might never see their families again. He thinks of Daisy, Red's mom, Leaf. He holds their memory close to his chest for a few moments. Then, he reaches out and lays his open hands on Red's trembling back to offer him what little comfort he can.

"It's gonna be okay," he whispers (even though it won't, not ever again). "It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be okay."

He hopes that if he repeats it enough, it might actually come true.

— . . . —

The fluorescent lights of the training room stay on throughout the night, so Green hardly gets any sleep. The floor is uncomfortable, and he is cold even though Red's body is pressed against his, still trembling slightly as he cries in his sleep.

Something coalesces in Green's mind during those long hours. It is an ugly and wretched thing, this feeling, and it festers at the sight of Red's swollen cheek, at the lingering taste of copper in his mouth.

Hatred is a volatile thing – a terrible fire that burns within a heart, transforming it into a furnace made of the blackest of metals. When tempered with the instinctive drive to survive, it becomes a weapon. The furnace will give you all the strength you need, if you would only continue to feed its flames.

This is truly the first lesson of Team Rocket. Beneath its grand ambitions and cruel experiments, there are hundreds of faces underlying it all. They are human faces, faces just like everyone else's. Greed, ambition, envy – all the deplorable things that people think of when they see another headline about the 'evil' criminal organization – they are all facets of human nature. It is ugly and monstrous, but still human, no matter how much the stay-at-home mother of three or the everyday businessman reading his newspaper at the local Pokémon Center want to deny it.

There is evil in the world, and it dwells as much in the typical housewife as it does in the Team Rocket grunt holding a gun to the Poké Mart cashier's head.

(The one distinction, however, is that Team Rocket's evil is channeled toward freedom).

Green is going through the elementary motion that all members of Team Rocket do. The vivid memories of Archer's fist cracking against his jaw, of Archer throwing Red onto the ground – fill his young heart with loathing, virulent and venomous.

Yet he does not long for vengeance yet. All hatred starts out innocuously enough, and the poison spreading through Green's veins is no different.

He stares at Red's sleeping form and desires nothing more than to protect him. He never wants to see him hurt again, wants to be strong so that bastards like Archer will never be able lay a finger on him and make him cry ever again.

Ah, but there it is. He needs to be _strong enough._

He does not know how he'll do it, but as the arm thrown over Red's side tightens around the sleeping boy, he promises himself that he'll do whatever it takes to get it done.

_I promise_, he thinks. _I promise no one will ever hurt us again_.

He wills the thought hard enough to make it solid, make it fall into the center of his heart, a rock for it stand on. He'll never let himself be weak again. He'll be strong.

Eventually, he falls asleep, the thought still echoing through his dreams.

— . . . —

Archer appears early the next morning and meets Green's glare with a flat look. Without waiting for the boys to get to their feet, the man plucks two poké balls from his pocket and tosses them at them. The spheres hit the floor a couple of feet away from the boys, and they explode simultaneously in twin flashes of light. Before they open their eyes, wincing from the assault against their retinas, they hear squeals of surprise and are knocked back by small, furry creatures jumping onto their laps.

When Green is finally able to open his eyes, he is greeted by the chocolate-colored muzzle of Eevee. She licks at his face delightedly, and he finds that he cannot suppress the equally delighted laugh that leaves his mouth. Beside them, Red and Pikachu go through a similar reunion, the electric mouse head-butting his trainer's stomach playfully.

"Rather than give these pokémon to our Research & Development Department to enhance, the Boss has ordered they remain with the two of you."

Green may be incredibly grateful to have Eevee back with them but not enough to dispel the hatred that seizes him each time he sees Archer's face. He scowls at the man, wincing when the expression sends a dull throb of pain through his swollen cheek.

"It's all well and good, then," Archer continues, choosing to ignore Green's expression, "because Team Rocket would not exist without pokémon. All training for prospective members is carried out with both hopeful trainers and their pokémon," he pauses to point at the wall behind them and the large red 'R' that is painted there, "Beneath that insignia is our oath. It reads: 'All pokémon exist for the glory of Team Rocket.' This will be your second lesson.

"Pokémon are tools. They exist to help mankind achieve their goals. It is our duty to sharpen these tools beyond their natural limits and make them achieve levels of power unlike any they would be able to achieve on their own. This cannot be done by coddling them; it can only be done by ordering them to confront challenges thought insurmountable and forcing them to overcome them," Archer reaches into his pocket and brandishes a third poké ball, "With that, we will commence our third lesson."

With a flick of his wrist, the poké ball flies through the air, landing a small distance from the boys and their pokémon. Another blinding flash of light explodes put from the sphere's confines, and a roar tears out of the creature's throat as it takes shape. When the light fades, the sturdy, fearsome form of an onix is revealed, its beady eyes locked on the boys.

"Your task is to defeat your opponent in battle," says Archer from where he stands behind the giant rock snake. "Failure will not be tolerated."

Before they can voice their objections, Archer snaps his fingers, and the rock snake draws back its tail to attack, casting a shadow over them. Letting out a cry of alarm, Green tackles Red into a roll, just barely missing the downward swipe of the onix's rocky tail. They roll to a stop with Green on top of Red, who stares up at him with eyes wide with terror. Dust hangs in the air as the onix draws its tail back, revealing the crater left behind from its attack.

"You're crazy!" Green yells over Pikachu and Eevee's cries. "Electric and normal attacks don't work on rock types!"

Archer just shrugs disinterestedly, squinting at them through the cloud of dust. "Type disadvantages are no excuse for failure. A true Rocket stops at nothing to claim victory and accomplish his mission. Attack again, Onix!"

With another cry, Green grabs onto Red's shoulder and rolls again. Each time Green's back is too the floor, he sees the tail of boulders speed closer and closer to them.

This time they aren't quite fast enough.

They manage to avoid the blow itself, but they are still close enough to where it lands to be tossed through the air. Green and Red land hard on their sides, the impact jarring enough to make their breaths leave them in a startled whoosh, but luckily not violent enough to break anything.

"Is this the best you can do?" yells Archer, unimpressed. "Hopeless! Onix, finish them now!"

Letting out a rumbling cry, the onix slithers across the arena floor towards them, eyes focused on its prey predatorily. Green forces himself to his feet, the adrenaline dumping into his veins temporarily muting the pain in his side.

"Red," he grits out, "Get up, Red! We have to move outta the way!"

The onix is almost upon them now, opening its mouth in a gravelly roar. Green stares at the wide maw of its jaws, but he cannot accept that this is how it will end for them. He can't even consider it. His heart is pounding in his ears, the drum-like sound overpowering the voice in his mind that screams in terror, that wants to beg for mercy.

He has to fight.

"_Eevee_!" he yells, and the brown blur that is racing towards them from across the arena pulls ahead of the yellow one, lunging into the air towards the rock snake.

Eevee hits its target headfirst, but the attack ends up doing more damage to her than the onix. She ricochets off the rock snake's body with a cry of pain, just barely recovering in time to land on her feet a short distance away. The attack, however, has its intended effect. The onix lets out a disgruntled cry and rears back from its advance on the boys, focusing its attention on its attacker.

Red finally makes it back onto his feet at the same time that Pikachu reaches Eevee, standing beside her in silent solidarity, cheeks crackling threateningly. The onix, aware of how moot that threat actually is, pays it no heed, lunging at the pokémon with another roar.

"Dodge it!" Green orders, hoping that Pikachu listens to him too.

The boys' pokémon manage to get out of the way of the onix's tackle in the nick of time, each jumping in separate directions. As the onix gathers itself back up to its full height, Green hastily goes through all the things he's ever read about pokémon battles. Eevee and Pikachu are low leveled, so there's no way that they could possibly know any strong attacks. The only moves they know are useless – tackle, thundershock, growl, tail whip…

The answer comes to Green in a flash.

"Use tail whip, Eevee!" he yells.

Eevee swings her bushy tail at the onix, making it let out a growl of annoyance and swat at her with the end of its tail. Fortunately, she manages to avoid it, continuing to use tail whip when she lands.

Green had always thought that this kind of strategy was lame whenever he saw someone else use it in a televised match, but circumstances have dictated that this be their best hope of surviving.

He catches sight of something out of his peripheral vision, and jerks his head to the side to see what it is. His fears that it was Archer sneaking over to beat them up some more turn out to be unfounded, as it's just Red. The other boy stands with his back hunched and teeth gritted against the pain in his limp arm.

"Pikachu!" he calls, causing the yellow mouse to turn to look at him. The two make eye contact, and something passes between them silently, something that Green can't even begin to decipher.

A pained yelp from Eevee makes Green tear his eyes away from the other boy and back onto the battle. She was just tackled to the floor by the onix, skidding to a stop with a whine. Hurt as she is, it takes her longer to recover, and this lag is everything the relatively slow and cumbersome rock snake needs to swat at her with its tail again, sending her sliding across the arena with another cry.

"Eevee!" Green yells.

And then Red is moving, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes, and across the field, Pikachu responds, letting out a sharp cry. The onix closes its eyes in irritation at the sound of the growl. Before the rock snake can react, Red moves again, and, impossibly, Pikachu changes tactics, darting towards the onix and swinging its lightning bolt-shaped tail at the same boulder on its body that Eevee had focused her attacks on before.

Green smirks nervously at the realization of what Red is doing. By simultaneously using growl and tail whip, he's building on Green's strategy and reducing their opponent's attack stats as well. He's not sure how they're communicating, but he can't bring himself to care, just hoping that whatever freaky connection they seem to have holds up for a while longer.

"Get up, Eevee!" it takes her a while, but she eventually manages to comply with that order, breathing hard. "Help Pikachu! Use tail whip, too!"

With both pokémon darting around the onix, the rock snake seems to hover on the edge of indecision as to which of them to attack. Even when it attempts to get rid of them, their lithe bodies, quick and small, are hard targets to hit, and its attacks end up missing.

Almost, Green thinks. Just a little more and –

"Rock slide!" Archer commands.

With a roar, the onix swings its tail at the ceiling. The impact dislodges several large pieces of concrete that hurtle to the floor haphazardly.

"_Eevee!_" Green screams.

Pikachu and Eevee let out cries of alarm and try to escape the attack, but to no avail. A rock hits the already wounded and sluggish Eevee in the abdomen and she crumples in on herself with one last, pained whine. Pikachu is not much luckier. He runs, darting through the falling rocks, but just as he is about to make his escape, a rock strikes him clear on the head. The rodent lets out a shriek before falling unconscious.

The boys tense with terror as the onix turns its head towards them. From across the arena, Archer lets out a sigh. "It seems that you didn't believe me when I warned you that failure wasn't an option…" He snaps his fingers again, but instead of slithering towards them to attack again, the onix seems to relax, bowing its head in submission.

"I-it was impossible," Green stutters pathetically, trying and failing to maintain his composure. "There was no w-way that an electric type and a normal type could beat a rock t-type…"

"Really?" Archer asks, raising an eyebrow at them sardonically as he makes his way over to them with long, measured strides. "I remember telling you that it is your role as trainers to force your pokémon to overcome their limits." He pauses in the rubble to pluck both Eevee and Pikachu out of it by the tails. "If they failed, it's due to their inability to overcome their weaknesses. Such a failure requires a suitable punishment, wouldn't you agree?"

Red's blood runs cold at the Rocket's words, his eyes widening and then narrowing at the sight of Pikachu hanging limply in his grasp. When Archer is within a few feet of them, he drops the pokémon on the floor and gestures towards them.

"What are you doing?" Green hisses, though there is more fear than bite in his tone.

The corners of Archer's eyes crinkle, revealing the early signs of wrinkles on his otherwise youthful and handsome face.

"I'm not doing anything. The person who should be responsible for the discipline of a pokémon is its trainer." He all but smirks now, his eyes shining with cruel mirth at the sight of their expressions. "Punish them. It is for their own benefit."

Green stares at the man, jaw gone slack with shock.

"No."

Archer lifts a blue eyebrow and turns to look at Red.

"No?" he repeats. It does not sound like a question.

The defiance on Red's face does not ebb away. His crimson eyes shine dangerously, the fire from before returning. "I won't hurt Pikachu for what _you_ did to him."

Archer and Red maintain eye contact for a long moment. Green tries to make a noise in protest, but he does not know what to say. He keeps his eyes on Eevee's battered, unconscious form slumped in front of him. He can't hurt Eevee… she only tried to protect him. It was Archer's fault. All of it was Archer's fault. Not Eevee's.

"Be careful," Archer warns him without breaking eye contact, eyes gone cold and icy. "You're skating dangerously close to being insubordinate again."

There is silence.

Archer squints at the boy and then snaps his fingers. Behind him, the rock snake lets out a growl as it twists into motion again, putting its head low to the floor and beginning to slither towards them.

"Red…" Green whispers, eyes fixated on the encroaching snake.

"You boys _will_ learn…"

The onix is close now, its head changing direction to avoid running into Archer.

"Red, you've gotta –"

Archer's eyes flash dangerously, and he raises his arm slowly. "That insubordination will always be met with the same punishment!"

The rock snake's tail is curling around Red's feet now, its head rising above them and staring down at them imposingly.

"_Red!_"

Archer extends his arm and points straight at Red, his hand curling into a fist.

"Bind!"

All at once, the rock snake's tail wraps tight around Red's middle, clamping his arms to his side. The boy lets out a scream as he is lifted into the air, the tail of rocks tightening around him.

"_Red!_" Green tears his eyes away from his screaming best friend and glares at Archer. "Let him go!"

Green charges at the Rocket wildly, heedless to the already foregone conclusion. The Rocket grabs and holds him at arm's length, hand fisted in his hair.

"And why should I do that, Oak?" Archer sneers, voice barely audible over Red's screaming. "Why should I listen to a spoiled, disobedient child like you and excuse insubordination from my trainees?" h=His fist twists in Green's hair painfully, and a cry tears its way out of his throat. "Give me one good reason."

The sound of Red's screaming in his ears drowns out everything – the pain, the voice of his conscience, the sting of his battered pride. The flames in his heart stutter out, and the smoke that curls out from his chest tastes acrid in the back of his mouth.

"G-Green…!" Red grits out, monotone voice broken open with agony and pleading.

He hates, he hates, he _hates_ (himself – for thinking of the whole stupid plan that got them into this mess, for not listening to Leaf when she warned them about stealing, for agreeing to go in the helicopter, for _not being strong enough_)… but all that hate is useless without the power to act on it.

"Please…" he whispers hoarsely, "please… just let him go. I'll do anything. Please, sir…"

And Archer smiles. He twists his hand in the boy's hair a little harder for good measure.

"Follow my orders," he says. When Green doesn't respond, Archer jerks his arm and draws the boy up by the hair to meet his eyes. "Did you hear me? Fulfill your responsibility."

The forest green of the boy's eyes shine impossibly with a stubborn fire. Archer smirks, wondering just how long that fire can rage before it burns those pretty little forests away.

But despite the defiance that burns so overtly in his eyes, the boy nods choppily, and Archer lets go of him.

Green stares at Eevee blankly. She is just beginning to come around, her dark brown eyes opening groggily and trying to focus on Green. She lets out an apologetic whine, trying to make it onto her feet. There is a lump is his throat that he can't seem to swallow. He can't, he can't –

Another scream.

"If you don't act soon, Onix will be sure to crush some of his bones to dust," Archer reminds him.

He thinks of his promise, of how he'd told himself that he would never let anything hurt Red again, about how he'd be strong from now on…

Quickly, he draws his foot back and then snaps it forward in kick. It catches Eevee in the stomach, and she lets out a high-pitched cry. Red screams again, and something within him snaps. He draws his foot back and kicks, again and again and again, until Eevee has stopped whining and has fallen unconscious from the blows again.

There is a snap of fingers, and the onix gives a rumbling growl as it unwinds its tail from Red's torso, letting the boy fall limply to the floor. Green stares at Eevee, at the labored rise and fall of her chest, at the distressed expression on her face even in unconsciousness.

Archer says nothing. He reaches into his pocket and grabs the poké ball from it, pointing it at the rock snake and recalling it with red beam of light. Wordlessly, he turns and makes his way back out the door, shutting it behind him with a resounding slam.

The room spins and Green doubles over, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the arena floor. When his eyes begin to sting and there is the warm sensation of liquid running down his cheeks, he blames it on the burn of the stomach acid and bile against his esophagus.

He isn't crying. He's going to be strong. He has to be strong, and tears are for the weak. He's not crying.

He's not, he's not, he's not –

— . . . —

Today their opponent is a golem.

It rolls and rolls and rolls about the field, trampling everything in its path.

Instead of ordering him to fight, Red grabs Pikachu and runs about the field, futilely trying to outrun the boulder-like monster. Green alternates between ordering Eevee to distract it from Red and screaming at the other boy to order Pikachu to attack.

Archer just watches them from across the field, a figure of cutting black against the white of the arena's walls.

When they lose, Red refuses to hurt Pikachu again. So Archer hurts him.

To stop him, Green kicks Eevee until she passes out.

— . . . —

Now their opponent is a kangashkan.

_When separated from their young, most kangashkan fall into a deep depression_, Archer informs them tonelessly.

The beast rams a ferocious mega punch into the ground, Eevee and Pikachu just barely managing to avoid it.

_Only the toughest of them enter unstoppable rages_.

He falls silent after that, opting simply to watch. Green doesn't need him to continue to know that this is one of those rare cases.

When it finally manages to knock Eevee and Pikachu out, Green decides he hates it. It doesn't matter that Pikachu is no longer at a type disadvantage. No matter how many times the little rodent fires volleys of electricity at it, the kangashkan keeps coming, plowing through the electric attacks with crazed roars.

Nothing he can think of ever _works_.

He takes his anger out on Eevee, gritting his teeth and deafening himself to her squeals of pain, to Red's cries as Archer punishes him for not punishing Pikachu.

He doesn't want to look up and see the tears spilling over from the kangashkan's eyes. He doesn't want to come face to face with the agony that makes it heedless to pain and reason.

She misses her baby more than anything, and she'd destroy everything that stands in her way to find it. Seeing that makes it a lot harder for him to hate her, to objectify her and make her an _it_.

Green lets himself wonder if his mother would do the same for him even though he knows she wouldn't. She chose to abandon him. She left him at Pallet Town and ran off without looking back.

(He's jealous of that baby because its mother loves it so much it would destroy itself before giving up on finding its child. It makes hating easier even as he makes excuses for her pain.)

It's just a pokémon. Those tears aren't real. Can't it realize that taking away its baby made it stronger? Of course it doesn't. It's just a stupid pokémon.

He draws his leg back one more time, and lashes out at Eevee's small, curled body.

It's just a stupid pokémon.

— . . . —

It goes on like this for days_. Weeks._

Each day, Archer calls out strong pokémon to battle them, and they lose each and every time. There are no breaks in the routine – battle, loss, punishment.

When it comes to punish their pokémon for losing, Red still won't raise a hand to his pikachu. So Archer raises his hand to him. They are mostly punches, the punishments for insubordination – Archer seems to have reconsidered using his pokémon as the sources of punishment – and Red takes it without making any noise. There is a map of bruises and cuts underneath the loosely fitting uniform. Green catches glimpses of them whenever Red is sleeping. It gets less and less hard to see each time.

Green stopped intervening after the third time. There is something insane about throwing yourself into the same situation again and again expecting a different result, and in the end his sense of self-preservation wins out. He does not want to get hurt.

(He does not want Red to get hurt either, but there is isn't anything he can do about that.)

One day, when Archer has Red sprawled on the floor from the force of a slap, Pikachu lets out a keening sound and struggles to his feet. His right ear, which never quite healed from the onix's rockslide, twitches at his side. Green expects the rodent to try and attack Archer, but instead, it slams its head against the floor once, twice, three times, staring at the Rocket all the while.

Archer barks out an astonished laugh at the pokémon's actions, and Green's eyes can only widen in comprehension.

"Pikachu… no…" Red murmurs. There are tears shimmering in his eyes.

It's clear that the pokémon _wants_ to be punished, Green thinks. Why can't Red see that? He strides over to it kicks at it, face stony.

Green stares down at Red, sees the betrayal in his face. Sneering, he kicks at the rodent again.

Archer's laughter seems to grow even louder at this.

After training, Archer lets them shower and use an actual bathroom instead of a corner of the arena. They're allowed a change of clothes into uniforms that actually fit, and are allowed to sleep in the room from before instead of the cold hard floor of the training room.

It's the first night Green doesn't feel guilty for what he's done. He stretches his sore body out on the mattress, buries his face in the softness of his pillow, and inhales the clean smell of detergent. These things are nowhere near as pleasant as they were back home, but there is something about having _earned_ these comforts that makes it more enjoyable. It doesn't matter that Green earned it by kicking a pokémon until it passed out – that isn't the point of it at all.

The point is that Green knows the rules now, and now that he does, he's playing for keeps.

— . . . —

Some men are born heroes, and then there are those that need a push in the right direction.

Green clearly belongs to the latter category. Left unguided, he would spend his days seeking out a noble title for all the wrong reasons. He would long to taste fame and renown, for those are the only things that would even begin to sate his hunger for recognition and adoration, his thirst for approval and acceptance. He would run across fields and mountaintops, caves and forests, trying to keep ahead of a boy with fire in his eyes and an instinctual talent that far surpasses his own. It is only at the end of his journey, when that boy with the indomitable will of fire shoves him off the crest of his ambitions and into the position of _second best_, that Green would learn how to be unselfish, how to subsist on the love of his pokémon partners and friends. And that man would be a good hero – perhaps not remembered by the history books, but loved and loved well.

But alas, that is in another life.

— . . . —

Red isn't talking to him again, but Green doesn't care.

They were beaten because they were weak, so maybe they deserved the punishment. Strength is the only thing that counts in this world they've been thrown into. There is no room for compassion, patience, or friendship, especially not with their pokémon. All they have is each other—Red and Green. If Eevee and Pikachu are too weak to protect them, then they're useless.

These thoughts run through Green's head in time with the throb of his arm and the dull ache of the bruises he'd received from the last training session. His eyes, gone hard and dark, stare at nothing, so he does not realize that Eevee is drawing closer until she is but a few inches away.

He jerks back at the sight of her, and her eyes, wide and brown, shine with something that Green faintly recognizes as hurt. She steps forward again, limping, and Green draws back again, unable to look at her anymore.

She mewls softly and lies down by the foot of his bed, her head resting on the floor dejectedly.

Green won't let himself feel guilty for what he's done anymore, so he won't let her – no, _it_ show him any sympathy either.

— . . . —

One day Green figures out the pattern.

They are battling a particularly savage rhydon. Pikachu and Eevee are darting about the field in an attempt to hold out as long as they can. Evading their attacks until Archer orders the use of a devastatingly powerful move that ends the battle in one fell swoop is just a stall tactic, but it is the most effective available to them. The tail whip/growl strategy, while effective in theory, always ends up getting their pokémon hurt when they get close enough to use the moves. Even if the strategy works, it would take Eevee too many tackle attacks to knock out their opponent, weakened defense stat and all. It certainly doesn't help that Pikachu is useless in every scenario – his electric attacks barely making the resistant rock and ground types blink in irritation.

At least evading their opponent altogether let them delay the inevitable a little while longer…

The rhydon lunges at Pikachu with a roar. The rodent just barely manages to avoid the beast by throwing himself down and through the space between his attacker's colossal legs. He makes it under its swinging tail just as the rhydon's horn drill strikes the ground, causing a horrible, earsplitting screech as it cuts through to the concrete underneath.

Green doesn't even bother covering his ears, eyes squinting through the pulverized dust that fills the air around the rhydon's bowed head. When it manages to pull its horn out from the floor, it will have them in its direct line of sight. This means that it'll attack them next, in all likelihood. Biting his lower lip, he starts planning their exit strategy with the intense foresight of someone who has had a colossal attacker come after him many times before.

_Roll out of the way… then get up and run? No, rhydon are quicker than that… it'll be on us before we can get up…. Run in opposite directions… have the pokémon come in to cover us… no, that won't work –_

And then it hits him.

He's supposed to be a Rocket – why not take a page right out of their book of tricks?

"Tackle, now!" he orders.

He can hear Archer's amused chuckle from across the field, "How many times will it take for you to learn –" he begins mockingly.

But Green isn't pointing at their pokémon opponent now…

The Rocket is cut off with a grunt as the air in his lungs leaves him all at once. He crumples in on himself just as Eevee pushes herself off his middle and lands a few feet away, growling menacingly.

Beside him, Red tenses with understanding.

"Don't let him get back up!" Green commands.

As Archer tries to get back onto his feet, Eevee snarls and lunges at his arm, sinking her sharp teeth into the flesh there.

Finally, the rhydon manages to dislodge its horn from the ground. It stumbles for a moment, its giant hind legs backpedaling as it attempts to regain its balance. Then, it turns its red eyes onto the boys and lets out a roar.

He reaches out and taps Red on the elbow. The other boy looks at him with widened eyes, his face devoid of all the righteous anger it had held toward Green as he slowly drags his fingers up his arm. Green's face twists in a smirk momentarily, then he lifts his hand off the other boy's shoulder and points it at the ceiling. Red's eyes follow, his eyes squinted as he searches for what Green means and –

They narrow in realization when, his eyes catching a glint of metal.

"Pikachu!" Red yells without looking away from the ceiling.

The yellow mouse turns away from Archer's crumpled form and looks back to follow his trainer's gaze. It breaks into a run, heading straight at the rhydon.

Before the rhydon can begin running at its new targets, Pikachu leaps onto his opponent's tail, making it cry out in confusion and whip the rocky appendage about. But Pikachu holds on, steadfast and stubborn, until the rhydon's tail whips towards the ground, then up –

There is a blur of yellow flying through the air, towards the ceiling, up, up, _up_…

Green's hand falls over Red's – a signal, and the boy's mouth twists in concentration. His body moves in the exaggerated manner that he uses to communicate his commands…

The room is illuminated in a blinding flash of yellow light. The electricity that surges from Pikachu's cheeks seems to have no intended target. Arcs of it crackle through the air, striking the ground and licking the ceiling, but most of it is directed towards the rhydon's horn. Like a lightning rod, it channels the electricity to it, where it strikes harmlessly.

That's when the sprinkler system activates.

It is almost a repeat performance of their first battle in the forest. Pikachu's electricity bounces from water droplet to water droplet, except this time, the water itself is both a medium and a weapon.

The water soaks into the thick skin of the rhydon, and it cries out in agony for the first time in the entire battle. Conducted by the water, Pikachu's electricity penetrates the rhydon's rocky hide, illuminating its seven-foot form in in crackling gold.

After that, it's all over.

It sways a few times, eyes glazed and listless, before falling forward. It doesn't get back up. Belatedly, the sprinkler system stutters to a stop.

Green wouldn't be able to suppress the smile that tears across his face if he tried. They won.

They _won_.

The feeling that begins permeating every layer of his being is similar to the trill of superiority he'd get when Leaf would back down from a fight. At its base, it is exactly the same – heady and lightheaded, pride swelling his chest. With this victory, the feeling is hundreds of times more intense.

There is a high-pitched squeal as Archer throws Eevee off his prone form and gets back to his feet, teeth bared in a snarl. "How dare you?" he roars. Green's eyes widen – it is the first time Archer had lost his composure so completely.

"A true Rocket stops at nothing to claim victory and accomplish his mission," Green recites, eyes fixed gleefully on the red indentations on the man's arm. "Isn't that right, _sir_?"

He could beat them now and Green wouldn't care. He's been defeated, beaten at his own vaunted game. The odds were all stacked in his favor but he still lost. The bite wounds, gleaming rubies nestled among torn strips of cloth in the cutting black of his uniform, are only half of it. Archer isn't invincible. He's mortal. All the power he had over them doesn't matter anymore; it's gone.

Green spent most of his life exploring rolling fields and staring into endless blue skies, but _this_, this is the first taste of freedom he has ever had. It runs through his veins, spikes the skin along his arms into goose bumps and a sets a shiver running down his spine. Punches and kicks won't take this feeling away. Nothing can.

Archer seems intent to try. His dark eyes flash dangerously with the lust to strike at him, chest heaving with each violent intake of breath. For a moment, Green grits his teeth and scrunches his eyes up into narrow slits, steeling himself for the pain he has been conditioned to expect for the last three weeks.

But it doesn't come.

The Rocket's breathing quiets gradually, disappearing into the pregnant silence that hangs in the air, heavy upon their shoulders. His face, which had been contorted with fury mere moments before, relaxes into his usual mask of apathy, vigilant and sharp. Yet even as his posture relaxes and the tenseness begins to fade, his eyes retain a fragment of that predatory wildness. It glares at them from behind the dark blue of Archer's eyes, a caged beast waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

Green's taunting smirk is like a confident child's hand waved in front of a newly captured gyarados's tank at an aquarium; eventually the creature will break free of its confines and strike.

But the shackles hold, and their victory is unmarred by violence.

"Mission accomplished. Congratulations, recruits," Archer grits out, voice teetering precariously on the edge of control.

Green surreptitiously sneaks his arm around Red's waist and squeezes hard. Red stiffens at his touch but stays silent, only moving when Pikachu prances toward him and jumps into his arms. Eevee hesitantly approaches them and gives Green a baleful look, her tail drooping so that it drags on the floor. They have won, but Green hasn't been taught how to reward them for a job well done.

Beside him, Pikachu nuzzles his face into Red's, and Green watches with a mixture of longing and hypocritical disapproval. Worried that if he goes about it the wrong way he'll derail the training process and give Archer the excuse he needs to lash out at them, he just gives her a curt nod and looks away.

The trick to being happy, he's learning, is just to pretend not to see anything.

So Green doesn't look at the way Eevee's looks dejected and crestfallen, or think about how much he'd like to follow Red's example and hold her the same way he's holding Pikachu.

Green won. Green is finally strong.

Nothing can take this feeling away.

Nothing.

— . . . —

Giovanni is in the process of watching the tape for what must be the umpteenth time when the boy is finally shown into his office. He waves off the grunt that brought him in without looking away, eyes focused on the screen. The resolution is rather grainy, but he can make out the exact moment Archer was tackled to the floor and, moments later, the triggering of the sprinkler system by the flash of electricity.

Turning away from the screen, Giovanni appraises the Oak boy. The boy was bathed and given a change of clothes before being brought to see his office, but that does little to hide the fading splotches of yellow along his jawline. The Boss knows that Archer's training methods were extreme – the extremity was precisely the reason _why_ he had chosen Archer to do it (one needs to break a wild ponyta before it can be trained, after all) – but Giovanni is still a bit uncomfortable at the sight of those method's results. His lip curls with distaste.

Almost as if in response to his change of expression, the boy cocks his head up, keeping his eyes on him all the while. There is certainly fear in those forest-green eyes of his, but it is tempered by the defiant jut of his chin. It is more the look of cornered prey than a terrified child.

Giovanni smirks at the sight of it. He is impressed.

"Do you know why you're here, Green?" he asks.

The boy jumps at the sound of his voice. Then his face twists with self-deprecation and effort. Within moments, all trace of fear is gone from his face. It has gone stony and flat, as if quickly and meticulously peeled off by a razor.

"The last battle you had with Admin Archer – the strategy you used to claim victory… did you make it up? Or was it your friend's idea?"

The change is drastic.

His face seems to cave in on itself before flaring with something the Boss had rarely, if ever, seen in any of his operatives. Protectiveness.

"It was me – I made it all up! I just told Red what to do!" he blurts, eyes meeting Giovanni's head on

"Are you telling the truth?" the Boss insists. "Or are you just lying to me to protect your friend?"

Now there's something else warring for dominance on his face – indignation.

"Red's too much of a wimp to think of something like that," Green replies hotly. There is derision in his tone, overlapping and melding strangely with the protectiveness. "It was Eevee who attacked him because _I_ ordered it to tackle him. Pikachu just shot its thunder where _I_ showed Red."

The Boss lets silence hang for a few moments before speaking again, keeping his eyes on the boy. There is no regret in his eyes, nor is there fear. Instead, he has returned to that same look of defiance, eyes almost challenging.

"If you think that I called you here to punish you for what happened to your instructor, you are mistaken." The defiance is overcome by a wave of confusion, his green eyes wide. "You are here so that I can offer you my congratulations. The task you were confronted with is not designed to allow for easy victory. The fact that someone as young as you was able to overcome it is very —" He pauses, considering. "— _telling_ of what your future in Team Rocket will be."

Even as the boy flushes pink with pride, he has a retort ready. "Who ever said I wanted to be in your stupid team, anyway?" The Boss's eyes narrow dangerously, but Green plods on, undeterred. "You _made_ us. We never wanted to."

Coming from anyone else's lips, those words would constitute insubordination.

Coming from little Green Oak, an _eight-year-old_ _boy_, it is simply surprising. Perhaps it even verges on the impressive.

He is either fearless or stupid, the Boss thinks, and neither of those are particularly good qualities to have in an organization like Team Rocket. Bravery usually does nothing but get people killed, and stupidity has the potential to enable operatives to botch even the simplest of tasks.

But there is something else about this boy, something that speaks to the Boss on another level entirely. It feels familiar and slightly mocking; an off-kilter reflection of himself when he was the boy's age, standing in front of his mother's desk and just _daring_ her to lash out at him. It is an eerie sight, especially since this boy isn't related to him at all. His mouth sets into a thin line at the thought, thinking that perhaps this isn't a bad thing.

"You're right," Giovanni says, voice flat, "but I'm afraid we didn't have another choice."

The boy doesn't miss a beat. "You could let us go home, then!"

"That is not an option. It is my duty to place the welfare of Team Rocket and its goals over your own."

Green crosses his arms petulantly. "I don't care about that."

Giovanni wonders how much of this is an act. Surely he can't be _this_ defiant, this reckless?

He rises from his high-backed leather seat with a scrape of wood against tile, and the boy flinches. Paying his reaction no heed, Giovanni walks past him and toward the door, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Do you know about the chain of command in this organization, Green?"

Green, body tense, arms stiff at his sides, nods. "Y-yeah. _He_ told us about it one time."

"Then you should know that there are different types of Team Rocket members. There are the grunts, or those who are assigned menial tasks and follow the orders of their superiors. And then there are _operatives_. Unlike grunts, operatives are sent on important missions. They are skilled, resourceful, strong." Something flashes in the boy's eyes at that, and something within Giovanni says _ah_,_ so _that's_ it_. "In order to be promoted from grunt to operative, you must pass a series of tests."

"Like gettin' your trainer card…" Green murmurs to himself.

Giovanni nods at him approvingly.

"The victory you claimed and the way you went about obtaining it say a great deal about what kind of trainer you'll become. In your thinking I can already recognize a great deal of resourcefulness, skill, and perseverance – all of which are traits Team Rocket operatives must have. You learned quickly and accomplished something that many of the grunts hoping to be operatives never do." He turns toward the boy and meets his wide eyes. "You have the potential to become someone important in Team Rocket, Green. Someone _strong_."

The boy's face glows for a moment, and Giovanni smirks to himself.

"You really think…?"

"I _know_," Giovanni interrupts him, and he finds that he is even being truthful. "We are doing great things here, and we need skilled trainers like you to help us bring our goals to fruition."

Standing in that office, Green begins to hesitate. Giovanni can see his childish conviction in the opinions of Team Rocket he clings to so desperately begin to waver, the certainty replaced by a penetrating doubt.

"Team Rocket's bad…" Green mumbles. At his sides, his hands tighten into fists.

"Good and bad are hard to distinguish sometimes, even for adults. You've been taught that stealing and hurting others is wrong, so I can understand why you would think that about Team Rocket," Giovanni concedes, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "But just because Team Rocket occasionally does bad things doesn't mean that _it_ is bad, however. Our intentions are not bad. They are anything but."

"What _do_ you want?"

Unconsciously, Giovanni's hand tightens a bit on the boy's shoulder. "To protect our culture from forces that would have it destroyed."

"Who?"

"Ourselves, Green. Ourselves."

The boy bites his lip, confused, and Giovanni pats his shoulder, an indulgent half-smile on his face. "There's no need for you to understand everything about Team Rocket's goals now. There is still plenty of time for you to learn. I only wanted you to know that I am very impressed by your progress."

Green nods, the pink returning to his cheeks and belying the yellow along his jaw.

"As a reward for your success, you'll be granted grunt-level clearance. You are now allowed to visit the areas the grunts are allowed to whenever you like, such as the general mess hall and gym, where battles take place." The boy's eyes light up, and Giovanni suppresses the urge to chuckle at how easy he is to please. "All I'll ask in return for this privilege is that you reflect on what we've discussed here today."

The boy nods, too excited to realize that despite the fact his cage just significantly grew in size, it is still a cage nonetheless.

"Okay," he says. Then, much more hesitantly, "sir."

The Boss quirks an eyebrow at the new development but otherwise stays silent as the boy slowly makes his way to the door of his office. Then, without turning back he asks, "What about Red?"

His first reaction is to ask after who Red is, but then he remembers the other boy – the collateral damage. Stubborn, as Archer had described him in his report. He was unwilling to punish his pokémon or follow any orders to that effect, even when threatened with physical harm.

That's_ the stupid one_, Giovanni thinks.

"The same applies for him," replies the Boss.

When the door is shut and the boy is gone, Giovanni takes a moment to consider when mercy had become a liability. Sitting himself back down in his chair, he pulls a bottle of old scotch (one of the last ones from his mother's old collection) and pours himself a glass, considering.

He thinks of his decision to keep the boys alive and the red-eyed child's refusal to punish his pikachu. Perhaps the two of them aren't so different, the Boss admits, the burn of the alcohol in his throat making him too honest for his own good.

But it is his mother's voice that sneers in his mind, laughing mockingly at him for his shortcomings.

_You're both too stubborn for your own damn good._

— . . . —

When Green returns to their room, he is quiet and starry-eyed. Red notices immediately, mostly because Green almost always has something to say and likes to affect being cool too much to ever go starry-eyed over something.

But Red makes it a point not to ask why.

Everything may be upside-down here, but Red still remembers how to tell right from wrong. He knows that hitting pokémon is wrong, especially good ones like Pikachu and Eevee who had done nothing wrong. All they had done was try to protect them. It wasn't their fault that the other pokémon were too strong. They shouldn't have to fight such strong opponents anyway.

There's no question about it to him. What they're making them do is wrong. It won't change how many times they make him repeat their lessons or how hard they hit him. It's wrong. Red won't do it.

He wishes Green would remember that, too.

"I met the Boss," Green eventually says. His tone is boasting, and Red can't understand why meeting the man who had them taken is anything to be proud about.

"He says I did a really good job in beating that giant rhydon today." There is a pause, Green clearly expecting Red to reply. The younger boy doesn't plan to indulge him. "He even gave me a reward," Green continues, a bit impatiently. "Do you wanna know what the reward is? Huh?"

Red keeps quiet, staring at the indentations in the whitewashed walls. He presses his fingers to the patterns there, though he's careful not to extend his muscles too far. Archer kicked him in the shoulder the week before, and it still hurts if he moves it too much.

Still, it's nothing compared to how Pikachu must feel…

"Hey!" Green all but yells, "Are you even hearing me?"

He keeps his back to Green and runs his hand over Pikachu's poké ball. The smooth surface has already started to get scratched up.

"Fine! See if I care!" There is a long silence occasionally interrupted from the squeaking springs of Green's mattress as he moves around and the exasperated, dramatic huffs he makes.

After just five minutes, the older boy speaks up again.

"Because I won the Boss said I could leave this room whenever I want!"

The prospect of being allowed out of the room is enough to pique the younger boy's interest. Wincing against the sharp ache of the bruises on his abdomen, he tenderly rolls over to face the other boy. When he's facing him, he can see the smug look on Green's face. He always had taken some kind of pleasure in being able to break Red's stoic silences.

Smirking, Green goes on, "That got your attention, huh? Well, yeah. The Boss said I was smart and resourceful and strong, and that because I beat that rhydon I have grunt-level privileges now. Pretty cool, huh?"

But Red frowns.

"Eevee and Pikachu beat Rhydon," he corrects, "not you."

Green's cocky grin falls to a scowl, lips twisting downwards and eyes narrowing.

"What do _you_ know, anyway? All you did was stand there like a baby while I did all the work."

Red doesn't quite know how to respond to that. He's never been good with words, so there's no way that he can say something to make Green see how wrong this all is.

So he doesn't even try.

Eventually, Green's scowl ebbs away and is replaced by a self-satisfied look. It's not quite a smile – his eyebrows are furrowed; the vestiges of the annoyance Red made him feel with his accusation still lingering – but there is something burning in his eyes. The flame makes his eyes murky and not quite as starry anymore. Red blinks, thinking it's just a trick of the light, but it's still there whenever he opens them.

"He said I was going to be important," Green says softly. His hand rests over his heart – over the red 'R' emblazoned there. "He said I was strong."

Red grits his teeth as he turns on his side again so that his back is turned to the other boy.

At least that way he won't have to see the beginnings of something ugly blooming on his best friend's face.

— . . . —

Later that night, when he is sure that the other boy is asleep, Red slips out of bed and gingerly tiptoes across the small space separating their beds. From the bedside table near Green's bed, Red takes Eevee's poké ball, careful not to make a sound that might wake the older boy.

Red thinks of the night he and Green shared a bed. It had been cold (it still is), and Red had wanted his momma more than anything. He and Green had shared the same bed during sleepovers, but there had been something different about that time.

Lifting the sheets and sticking the hand holding Eevee's poké ball under it, Red's fingers run along the nicked surface and press at the button. The light, smothered by the thick linen, only brightens his side of the room for an instant. It was dim enough that Green, sleeping on his side with his back to Red, was almost sure to have slept on, undisturbed. Just to make sure, he pauses for a moment, listening hard for any sign of wakefulness.

But Green's breathing stays deep and even, and before he knows it there is the wet press of a nose against his hand. The poké ball he was holding goes slack in his grip with surprise, the sound of its fall muted by the cocoon of sheets enveloping it.

Peeling back the entwined layers off, his hands eventually find the soft fur of Eevee. In the dark she is but a formless blur to his eyes, but when he presses his hands against her back Red can feel her agitation in the rigidity of her muscles, the slight trembling of her skin.

Perhaps she thinks it's time to fight again.

Or maybe she thinks she's going to be punished for something.

The boy runs his hand up and down her back soothingly, easing the tension away as best he can. The process is painstakingly slow, but eventually she goes boneless, collapsing onto the bed with a small, quivering exhale.

Carefully, Red eases himself back into bed around Eevee's small form. From underneath his pillow he retrieves his own poké ball and, stuffing it underneath the sheets, presses the round button to let Pikachu free.

The electric mouse burrows through the sheets, tail brushing against Red's leg, to poke his head out. Despite the shroud of darkness that hangs around them, Red can make out the twitch of Pikachu's injured ear. Like always, the sight strikes a pang of sorrow deep within him, one that makes his eyes sting with useless tears.

"_Pi?_" the electric mouse says, something like a question in his tone.

Red is a boy of few words. Language is heavy and cumbersome on his tongue, so he only speaks when he finds it necessary. He likes pokémon because language is often unnecessary. They express themselves in the cock of their head, the emotion hovering in their intelligent eyes. Communication is instinctual, bodily. Red finds this much easier to understand than the inflection in someone's voice, the words they use. They say one thing and do another, like the man who brought them to this place. With a pokémon, there is no deception; what he sees is what he gets. There is no subtext, no layers to peel back and interpret. They're not offended by his silence, and Red is grateful for this.

A human wouldn't understand what the press of the boy's small hands against their back means, what the patterns traced along the bumps of their spine spell out.

But Pikachu does. Silently, the pokémon makes his way to Eevee, settling in close to her to share his warmth. Red follows the mouse's example, curling his small body around them, laying a hand so that its heel lies against Pikachu's side and its fingers buried in Eevee's fur.

He concentrates on conveying what he wants them to know, thinks it and _feels_ it as hard as he can.

_You are good. You are important._

_I'm sorry._

It feels safe.

Distantly, he remembers that night when he and Green slept pressed together on the older boy's narrow bed. That had felt safe, too. But somehow Red knows that it probably wouldn't, not anymore.

(He wishes it still would.)

Eventually Eevee's trembling stops, and despite his exhaustion, Red can't fall asleep until she does. When sleep claims her, it rushes up and out of his sore limbs, his aching bruises, his heavy bones. It shuts his eyes, carrying him to a place where there is nothing but warmth and darkness.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Good news! I finished Act II last week and have since forwarded it to my beta reader. Hopefully this means that if there aren't any errors or inconsistencies that require extensive repair, it should be ready for next Monday. __I am working on Act III now, but as I have an exam this Friday, another exam on Monday, and a paper due next week, progress on it should be gradual, at best._

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter! If you were anon and I couldn't get back to you via PM, I'll reply here:_

**Sam**:_ Thank you very much! I hope you continue to enjoy this fic and the spin it takes on things._

**interested anon**: _The fact that this hasn't been done before is both very exciting and extremely intimidating. I just hope I can do this concept and the characters justice. Thank you for your review!_

_Anyway, thank you for reading this chapter. I'd love to hear what you think, so don't hesitate to drop a review or some feedback. Likewise, if you have any questions, feel free to include those. _I look forward to hearing from you!__

__EDIT: Made some corrections here and there.__


	3. Act II, Part 1

_Notes: So sorry for the late update... Finals and other facets of real life pretty much ate my fanfic life, and there was a great delay in the beta-reading process. I hope this was worth the wait!_

_Chapter-specific warnings: language, violence, dark themes._

__Disclaimer: Pokémon - its characters, setting, and all other borrowed elements - is the sole property of its creators. I am not profiting from this in any form.__

* * *

><p><em>Act II (Part 1)<em>

The Pokémon League rules the airwaves.

From a young age, children are exposed to the high-octane world of battling. They are made to watch with wide eyes as the creatures tear each other apart, directed by children not much older than themselves, children whose dulled eyes are focused on nothing but the fame that comes with victory. This makes the glory and the renown all that much more attainable to the children, and soon studies show that one out of every four children begin to dream of leading fire-breathing monsters into battle.

Standards of public decency, however, mandate that the battles be carefully edited so that there is no sign of actual bloodshed. It keeps worried parents from questioning the system too much, and ensures that the precious one of every four aren't scared off from pursuing what the League wants them to.

(Because once battles were waged with guns and bullets, by real live people that would run onto battlefields for the glory of their nations. There were cannons that roared and tore through the hulls of enemy ships, hopeless battles fought over the smallest of island territories. There were bombs that fell from the sky on clear days and reduced entire regions to wastelands –

But that was in another era).

The wool is pulled over the world's eyes so meticulously that, when ten-year-olds partner up with their first pokémon and begin traveling, the sight of their partner's blood staining a gym floor is harrowing. So harrowing that many of them cry all the way back home.

It's genius, really.

The Pit is a tool Team Rocket uses to reverse this effect.

It's purely recreational. In fact, the higher-ups make a show of discouraging it, chewing out the new recruits when they show up late to roll call half-asleep, having wasted their downtime battling in the Pit for hours on end. This does nothing to discourage them from continuing this practice, however, especially since those very same higher-ups sometimes grace the stands, watching with eagle-eyed scrutiny, searching for 'the one to watch,' the ones who'll go far in this place.

But it's just not the opportunity for promotion that makes the Pit so popular. While on duty, Team Rocket members are run like the armies of old. Orders are followed to the letter; operatives are expected to perform their duties flawlessly. Missions that involve more than two operatives are uncommon (especially in these days of gathering intelligence and setting the stage for what is to come), but teamwork is stressed just as much as obedience and efficiency are.

The thing is that the environment isn't always encouraging of camaraderie.

Team Rocket is cutthroat.

Promotions are scarce, and since promotion means higher pay, members usually stop at nothing to prove themselves, even stabbing a fellow operative in the back to get it. Here, grudges are unavoidable. Under the old leadership, the Rockets tended to fight among themselves more than they fought against the police. While this guaranteed that only the best and brightest made it to the top, it also ensured that sometimes those best and brightest found themselves in command of a group of men and women that they'd betrayed. Insubordination and poor teamwork were commonplace in those days, so many an operative was lost to the police because their grunts refused to watch their backs.

The Pit was but one of the many things Giovanni introduced to the organization upon his rise to power. One of HQ's four training gyms had been converted into an arena that was, quite conspicuously, never used for official business. It wasn't long before the grunts started using it as a place to settle their grudges without fear of reproach. There were fistfights and bouts of hand-to-hand combat, but pokémon battling was by far the most common of spectacles to be seen there. The Boss turned a blind eye (in fact, he was rumored to visit the place himself some nights) so the Pit thrived. Illicit betting rings sprung up around unofficial tournaments and title matches, the crowds screaming for its favorites and those they felt were in the right in the dispute that had brought the combatants there.

And so a new culture was spawned. Team Rocket was simultaneously provided with nightly entertainment, a method of desensitizing new recruits to the violence of pokémon battling, a level playing field where admins and grunts alike could settle their differences, and a way for hopefuls to prove themselves worthy of promotion.

It was an act of genius, really.

Green and Red had visited the Pit on their third night of wandering the halls of Rocket HQ. They had somehow weaseled their way in past a broad-shouldered bouncer and into the dimly lit stands while the man was distracted by a brawl that had broken out between two particularly embittered grunts. The screams of the crowd had left their ears ringing and the sight of the battle going on in the battlefield below had left them wide-eyed and speechless.

The bloody battles had left both boys deathly silent at first, both of them closing their eyes tight whenever a particularly gruesome move hit. They had battled already themselves, but those battles had not been anywhere near as violent as the Pit's battles.

Red was much too sensitive to analyze the gruesome matches beyond face value. No matter how hard he scrunched his eyes shut or covered his ears, he could not avoid hearing the yelps and screeches of the injured pokémon. They haunted his dreams and made his sleep so fitful that not even sleeping with Pikachu and Eevee could chase the nightmares away.

Green stopped looking away after the fourth match he watched. It made him think of Archer and their battles, of how Eevee and Pikachu never bled and were always able to fight the next day.

_He was going easy on us_.

His victory against Archer meant nothing—the man had just been playing with them.

The realization left a bitter taste on his tongue, and left his throat dry with vitriol and an unquenchable thirst to prove himself.

It took Green three nights of watching from the stands before he gathered up the nerve to make the long line to participate in one of the battles, leaving Red behind in the stands. The other boy's eyes had gone wide and he had reached out for him despite his cold shoulder. Green had just pulled away, offering Red a smirk that made him look much more confident than he actually was (in truth, he was terrified).

He had endured the jeers and taunts from the grunts for what seemed like hours. The men and women (some not much older than him) had laughed at him mockingly in the dingy fluorescent lights.

"You sure you shouldn't be in bed, kid?" a man with a scar cutting across his eye sneered.

Green had just grit his teeth and stayed silent.

The closer and closer he got to being next, the louder his heartbeat became. Its beating became so loud that it eventually drowned out the pulsating thrum of the crowd. He jammed his hand into his pocket grabbed Eevee's poké ball in an effort to reassure himself, running a sweaty finger over its scratched up surface in time with the vibrations that pulsed through the cement under his feet.

When he was next, a razor-thin woman with pink hair, who was arbitrarily put in charge of letting people through to the arena, had regarded him skeptically.

"What're you? Another Black Tulip?"

Green hadn't understood, so he had shaken his head. "I'm Green," he had croaked over the lump in his throat.

The woman had just scowled, looking over her shoulder when the crowd gave a particularly loud roar. One of the competitor's zubat's attacks had missed its opponent's ekans and hit the other trainer instead. When she turned back, there was an amused gleam in her eyes.

"The Green Tulip? That's a little copycat, don't you think?"

"It's Green," he repeated. "Just Green."

The woman had rolled her eyes and turned back to the battle. "Whatever you say, kid. You're up next."

And then it was his turn all too soon, and he was pushed into the arena and the harsh glare of the overhead lights. Out there, the thrum had become a single roar, deafening and unintelligible. Green had stood there, eyes wide, as the sounds had washed over him like a torrential downpour of humanity. He almost froze up, but at the sound of the crowd's mocking laughter, he had forced himself to walk over to his box, limbs stiff and uncooperative.

"A kid? C'mon! And here I was hoping that I'd actually be _challenged_, tonight!" his opponent had shouted.

It was the scarred man from earlier. In response, the crowd's laughter had grown ever more pervasive.

Green was surprised at just how calm, how _clear_, his voice sounded when he shouted back at his opponent.

"This'll be the kid that kicks your ass!"

The words had torn themselves out of his throat before he could stop himself, but even when he registered the dangerous tightening of his opponent's jaw, he could not bring himself to regret it. The shift in the crowd was audible almost immediately – the laughter had become more amused than mocking. They were laughing with him and at the scarred man; _Green_ had made them laugh.

In that moment, he knew that he had to keep them on their side.

The terms, determined on a whim by the half-drunk referee of the night, were slated as a one-on-one pokémon battle. Despite his clear state of inebriation, the ref had gone on to specify that attacks against the trainers themselves were not allowed in this battle, sending an exaggeratedly mock-gracious look at Green.

Plucking Eevee's poké ball from his pocket and holding it at the ready, he willed himself to win and prove all these idiots wrong.

He was gonna be strong, important. The Boss himself had said so.

He had looked up at the crowd of people clustered around the door, narrowing his eyes and searching for a familiar face. It was impossible to make any distinctions. The only light was coming from the open door of the entrance, and all he could see were the silhouettes of a few people in the doorway.

He had forced his eyes back on his opponent when the referee gave a shout of "ready?". The man was smirking self-assuredly. When he noticed that Green's eyes were on him again, he stuck his thumb out and drew it slowly over his neck, sticking his tongue out in his best imitation of a corpse. Green ignored him. He was thinking of Red and how his eyes better be on him, of how great it would be if the Boss could get a video of this battle, too.

"Start!"

Expecting the scarred man to do the same, Green threw his poké ball into the ring. Eevee appeared in a flash of light. She had looked around with her bushy tail hanging between her legs and her ears flattened against her skull, visibly intimidated by the cheers and taunts of the crowd. Green realized that his opponent had not called his pokémon out yet.

The man pulled a poké ball from his belt and threw it into the ring. When the light faded, the burly form of a machop was revealed.

It was then that Green realized what the man had done. He had waited for him to call out Eevee so that he could choose the pokémon that had the best advantage against her.

The noise of the crowd fell away, and all Green could hear was his own heartbeat. He looked like a fool, he realized with a gut-wrenching pang. If the Boss was watching –

"Let's finish this twerp quick! Low kick!"

His blood ran cold as the machop charged at Eevee. Giving a cry of alarm, she turned to him and looked at him with wide, fearful eyes. When it broke into a slide a few feet away from her, its leg extended, Green finally found it within himself to speak.

"Jump!" he shouted.

Weeks of dodging the attacks of much stronger pokémon had paid off. Just as the low kick was about to hit, Eevee bent her legs and jumped up and over her opponent, avoiding the attack by mere seconds.

Machop had rammed its thick fingers into the floor to right itself, but by that time, Eevee was ready to attack.

"Tackle!" Green ordered.

"Karate chop!" came his opponent's response.

When Eevee rammed headfirst into the machop, the fighting type had winced, but managed to land a downward chop against his attacker's back. Eevee crumpled, collapsing onto the arena floor with a cry.

The crowd flared up in a hungry roar.

His opponent raised his arms in victory, and his machop mirrored him, beckoning the crowd for more applause.

"So much for 'kicking my ass,' huh?" the man sneered. It was directed more at the audience than Green.

"_Get up!_" Green hissed. His skin had gone completely white, his stubby nails stabbing into the calloused skin of his palms hard enough to draw blood.

Eevee, eyes scrunched closed against the pain, showed no sign of responding.

The ref had been about to step in and declare the match over when the chant began. It started off so garbled that Green could not understand what it was they were saying, but it soon grew progressively louder and more intense.

"Finish him, finish him, finish him!" the crowd was screaming bloodthirstily. The ref had just shrugged, cowed, and returned to sipping from amber-colored bottle, leaning back against the side of the ring apathetically.

"I can't hear you!" his opponent said, lifting his arm to cup around his ear.

"_Finish him! Finish him! Finish hi-i-i-m!"_

He could not lose. Not ever again.

"_Eevee! Get up!_"

"Well, if you insist…" his opponent said, making a show of conceding to the crowd's wishes. "Machop! Karate chop, one more time!"

"_Eevee!_"

The machop lifted its arm showily, brought it down so blindingly fast it was a gray blur…

Eevee reared backwards, her paw curling back and swiping against the floor. The machop let out a cry as the sand she had kicked assaulted its retinas. It drew its hand out of its attack to cover its eyes, blinded.

Green did not waste a second.

"Bite its neck!"

Eevee lunged with a snarl, sharp teeth digging into the soft skin of her opponent's throat. Letting out a gurgling screech, the machop fell backward under Eevee's weight. Its thick, corded arms flailed, struggling for purchase on its assailant and failing.

The scarred man's orders were halting and panicked – he was in trouble and he knew it.

The roar of the crowd was louder than any Green had ever heard in his three days of watching battles. It was simultaneously shocked and outraged, impressed and incredulous. Neither cheer nor taunt, it rose around the boy like a column of flames.

"_Finish him, finish him, finish him, finish him!_" the crowd crowed, their voices frenzied and manic to Green's ears.

Green did not need to be asked twice.

Smirking, he pointed at the machop.

"Bite again! Deeper this time!"

The machop's screech of anguish was even louder than the last time. A sickly crimson gleamed dully on Eevee's teeth, flashing at the crowd each time she reared her head back to attack again.

Green made her attack until the crowd was sated. There were pools of red coating the arena floor, her fur, and the machop's corded flesh. He did not let her stop until the collective scream was the only sound ringing in his ears, over and over again, deafeningly, maddeningly, and all for him.

— . . . —

The Pit quickly becomes his favorite haunt after that.

He battles each and every night against whoever wants to fight him. Grunts, operatives, even an admin once; it does not matter. He wins each time he steps into the ring no matter who his opponent is. Eevee grows quicker and deadlier with each victory. Soon opponents can barely land a hit on her before she takes them out with a decisive bite to their throats. It becomes his signature move, but no matter how much his opponents expected it, they could do nothing to avoid it.

It is not long before Eevee's jaws grow so strong that she becomes able to tear an opponent's throat out.

(Green only busts that one out when the crowd gets particularly restless.)

He had not really expected Red to be impressed, but it seems that everyone but the other boy was impressed by his nightly performances. Red seems even more intent on avoiding having to speak with him these days, though he still follows him around silently. It's almost like he is some kind of shadow. It pisses Green off, sometimes (most of the time).

The respect he gets from everyone else almost makes up for it though. Whenever he walks into the mess, the room goes silent. It is not long before a group of grunts – new recruits, by the looks of it – start joining them, agreeing with everything Green says and laughing at every joke he makes. They are not much older than them – Jose, the oldest among them, is only fifteen. He joined the Rockets after his father was arrested in Saffron for killing a Jenny.

"She wouldn't let'm conduct his business in peace, y'know?" Jose tells them once around a mouth full of sloppy joes. "So he strangled the bitch to make 'er stop."

He says this proudly, just like when he tells them about the things he has done himself. He is usually pleasant to be around, and despite the age difference, he always defers to whatever Green says.

Green had only just turned nine, so Jose's stories about the girls he's 'banged' (or plans to over snide elbowing with the older boys whenever a particularly 'hot' girl walks by) are still a bit repulsive to him, but he soaks up the stories about the Boss and Team Rocket, even if most of them are bound to be false.

Green is starting to learn that every rumor has a kernel of truth in it. Knowledge is power, and even knowing about a bizarre rumor about someone is preferable to not knowing anything about him.

But Jose's eyes always get narrowed and angry whenever someone brings up the police or, gods forbid, the League.

"The fucking Unovan bastards think they can run how we live," Rick, a twelve-year-old from the slums of Celadon, says. Jose is too apoplectic to speak, so Rick had gladly offered his two-cents. "Even after they dropped the bombs on us."

"The bombs?" Green asks.

"The a-bombs," Blake supplies. At Green's blank, slightly impatient stare, he goes on to explain. "They were used against us in the Great War to force us to surrender to Unova. It's because of the bombs that we were forced to accept the League as our government."

Green had heard of the Great War of course, but he did not know the specifics. The old man used to blather on and on about it over dinner sometimes (whenever he deigned to show up), but Daisy used to shut him up quickly with pointed stares at Green.

Still, Green knows that it's better to pretend to know something even when you don't to save face (knowledge is power, the Boss tells him), so he just nods along with the others.

— . . . —

The Boss calls Green into his office sometimes.

It doesn't happen often enough to make it a routine, but they have met enough for Green to notice things about the man – the strength of his jaw, the distinguished line of his dark suits, the attention he pays to each and every detail of the papers he reads. He takes note of his mannerisms, his immaculate appearance (clean shaven, hair gelled back without a strand out of place, the insignia of the organization emblazoned over his heart).

The Boss usually just stays quiet and looks over the day's reports while Green boasts about his exploits in the Pit, but Green knows that the man is listening to him. He had not known just how good it felt to have someone listen to him like that. It made him feel important, especially since the Boss was such a busy man.

Green soaks in everything he can about the man, and despite the fact that he is never _taught_, he learns more from the Boss during one of his visits than he had from the old man in all the years he had lived in his house.

The lesson he wants to learn today, however, can only be taught verbally.

"Tell me about the Great War," Green says.

The Boss looks up at him, dark eyes shining dully with curiosity.

"What makes you ask about that?"

The man's inquisitive stare prompts Green to fidget uncomfortably in his seat. Uselessly, he shrugs. The Boss regards him for a few moments longer before turning his eyes back to the stack of reports on his desk.

"The Great War was fought between the forces of this country and the Unova League."

"I know that," Green replies somewhat childishly. "I'm not stupid_._"

The Boss chuckles, but does not look up from his paperwork. Putting the tip of his pen to the paper, he signs in an elegant, decisive flourish.

"I never said you were, my boy."

Deliberately, the Boss shuffles the papers into a stack, caps his pen, sets it down atop the stack, and settles his eyes on Green.

"In 1941, the Unova League declared war on our country."

"Why?"

"We were an ambitious nation, Green. We would stop at nothing to claim what we felt we were entitled to. So we went to war to claim those things. We attacked many other countries with our military, and in but a few years most of the hemisphere was under our control."

"Kanto's pokémon were that strong?" Green asks, mouth hanging open in awe.

The Boss smiles ruefully. "Back then we didn't rely on pokémon to fight our battles for us like we do now. We used weapons – guns, planes, ships – people did the fighting, not pokémon. And it wasn't just Kanto. In those days, the regions were all one nation – an empire."

Those words – guns, war, _empire_– they are unfamiliar to Green's ears. They settle in his mind heavily, replete with some kind of archaic power that he cannot even begin to comprehend.

"What happened to us?"

A frown pulls the corners of the older man's lips downwards, and his eyes darken. "Unova won the war."

"The a-bombs…" Green mutters.

"Indeed," the Boss says. He sounds impressed. "Though the Unovans don't call them that anymore. They prefer the term 'weapons of mass destruction,'" he snorts. "I suppose that's a valid name for those things—just two of them reduced Orre to a barren wasteland."

This too is far beyond Green's comprehension. His world—this new world that the Great War had left in its wake—consists of pokémon battles. Only pokémon could cause destruction on anything approaching that scale, and even then, an entire _region_? A dragonite's hyper beam or a rampaging gyarados could destroy a small city, tops.

"The war ended in 1945, but the nation's trials were just beginning," the Boss continues. His tone is flat. "Unova didn't want us to be an empire. They were threatened by the idea of our nation possessing the power it once had. So they took away our weapons, our planes, and our ships. They did away with the infrastructure and businesses that had made us an industrial power and left our already devastated economy in shambles. To do all this, they subordinated our government to one of their own creation – the Pokémon League."

Green says nothing; he _can't_ say anything. His mind is frozen, the word he thought he knew had just been turned on its head and he did not know what to make of it.

"Perhaps it's time you went to sleep," the man says wearily. He rubs at his eyes tiredly. Suddenly, he looks much older than he ever did. "We can continue this conversation at a later date."

Green nods, uncharacteristically silent. Shakily, he gets to his feet and leaves the room.

The Boss turns his attention back to his papers. Picking up his pen and setting the point to paper, he signs hastily. Ink droplets mar the sheet, blotting out some of the words.

He signs the next paper, his mouth set in a firm line.

_Soon_, he reassures himself. _Soon._

— . . . —

The sun hangs high in the sky, bright and gleaming like a guillotine, when the helicopter reaches the mainland.

Built for stealth on private contract, the helicopter is one of its kind. It is a nondescript vehicle – there are no blazing insignias inscribed onto its flanks, and its jet-black paint does not glint in the sunlight. Its appearance belies its capabilities, however. Built completely from carbon composites, it is invisible to radar. Its rotor turns quickly and efficiently yet quietly, and it is outfitted with max repel dispensers to keep any errant flying pokémon from creating any unfortunate accidents. Beneath its broad snout, concealed in a small compartment, is a device unseen in Kanto since the war decades past.

The League does not yet possess the technology to create such a craft, nor will they have the means to do so for several years. It is one of Silph Co.'s many innovations – the cutting edge of technology available solely to those who have the money to fund its development. And so it had been – billions of laundered yen channeled covertly through the wires from offshore bank accounts and straight into Silph's Research & Development budget.

Usually it is reserved for the personal use of the Rocket Boss. Currently, however, it is being used to ferry one of Team Rocket's most valuable assets from the Rocket Boss's private villa back to Rocket HQ.

Or at least she had been the organization's 'most valuable asset' few months ago. Now, severed from the heavy load that had weighed her down for months, she is nothing but an operative again – a highly valued operative, but an operative nonetheless.

Tapping her newly manicured crimson nails against the leather of the seat, the woman lets her eyes flit towards the girl sitting beside her.

If appearances were to be believed, the little girl is just a precious little thing – blonde hair hanging in tresses down to her shoulders, her smile so sweet it could melt even the hardest of men. The Rocket uniform looks wrong on her. Surely an innocent little girl couldn't be a member of a criminal organization like Team Rocket. Why, she's only eight-years-old!

_Deceptive little brat_, the woman thinks venomously. Her full lips, painted a rich ruby red, curl in distaste. Oh yes, she knows better than to trust appearances.

Though air-condition and outfitted to be as luxurious as possible, the compartment feels unbearably stuffy to the woman. After being stuck with the brat for the past few months, she is all too eager to be rid of her. Why the Boss would feel it necessary to send _her_ of all people she would never know, but she planned on sweetly voicing her annoyance at his little spy as soon as she could.

Finally, the helicopter reaches its destination. At the sight of the sprawling city below them, the blonde girl lets out a little sigh; the woman just rolls her eyes. It's not like Celadon is much to look at these days, she thinks, eying the smog around the chopper with distaste.

"We are now beginning our descent," the pilot's voice says into their headsets.

Located underneath one of Celadon City's foremost tourist attractions, HQ is but a ten-minute walk away from the Diet of Kanto and the prime minister's residence. As magnificent as the old buildings look, the threat they pose to the organization is moot. All the power lies in the hands of the League now. A bunch of bloated, old marionettes pose no threat to Team Rocket.

On the contrary, it is the councilors and ministers (traitors) that should fear the organization.

The helicopter circles a few times among the smog and clouds, unseen, before starting to descend toward the helipad seated atop the building. She almost wishes that it were nighttime – the neon lights of the building always look pretty when they're lit against the rest of the skyline's murky fluorescence.

Home.

When she looks out the window, she immediately begins looking for the familiar form of the Boss, only to find that he is not there. Hissing a bit under her breath, she runs her hands hurriedly down her skirt, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles there.

The girl seems to notice and giggles. It sounds dissonant in the woman's ears, and her lips thin in anger.

When the helicopter sets down, she whips off the safety belts and tears open the door. The voice of the pilot cries out protestingly in her ear before she throws off the headset. She storms her way off the craft, the heels of her boots clacking against the ground and the wind from the chopper whipping her hair into a frenzy.

She is greeted by a familiar face – dark blue hair barely being whipped about in the wind, eyes crinkled into the beginnings of an exasperated smile.

"I see that your leave of absence hasn't calmed you any," Archer says as she clacks her way past him and the saluting grunts and maintenance crew to make her way into the roof access. The man follows her into the ornate hallway, keeping her pace effortlessly.

"Don't try me, Apollo," she hisses. "I am not in the mood for your sarcasm."

Archer chuckles at the use of his codename, but lets it drop.

"The Boss sends his apologies for not being able to meet you. He is currently involved in an important briefing."

Jabbing her index finger at the down button on the elevator panel, she turns to glare at the man, eyes narrow and dangerous. Archer grins; her glare had always reminded him of an arbok's infuriated stare (right before it's sliced in two).

"How convenient," she seethes.

Archer raises an eyebrow. "Now _careful_, Athena," he chides. "You may have been out of the game for a while, but you would do well to remember that the walls have ears here. There are lots of overeager operatives just dying to take your place."

"How could I forget?" she mutters as the elevator doors slide open with a ding.

They step inside, Archer stepping towards the control panel and 'Athena' turning toward the reflective surface of the elevator to inspect her appearance. As she primps her hair, disarrayed by her stunt earlier on the roof, Archer presses his hand onto the area of the panel above the buttons.

"_Identity recognized_ – _Administrator Archer."_

She raises a thin eyebrow at him through her reflection.

"Basement level four," Archer intones before turning toward his female companion with a quirk of one of his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"_Administrator_ Archer? That's new." She cannot quite keep the envy out of her voice. Or eyes, for that matter.

"Yes, well," Archer says, adjusting the collar of his uniform – admin-level black, she notices, "we've been busy while you were gone."

Her frustration only grows when a small foot sticks itself in between the doors before they slide closed again, forcing them to open. The blonde girl walks in, a frown on her face.

"You almost forgot me," she says, dark eyes glinting mischievously at the sight of the woman's face. "But don't worry, Ariana. I forgive you. The doctor said it might take a little while for you to get over the 'separation anxiety.' She did say you might be a little forgetful at first…"

Despite himself, Archer chortles.

"Why you little b–"

"Welcome back, Domino," Archer interrupts her, sending a warning glance her way. "Did you enjoy your vacation?"

The blonde girl – Domino – rocks back on her heels, eyes intent on the numbers above the door as they light up. "It was boring," she says. "All we did was sit around all day doing nothing."

That, at least, is something they can agree upon.

Maternity leave had not been good to Ariana. The months of being confined to her bed (on the Boss's orders, no less) had done nothing but sharpen her agitation and impatience into something volatile. She had spent the last trimester barking orders at the maids and snapping at that insipid doctor who had limited her diet and suggested bed rest to the Boss in the first place. Team Rocket's goddess Athena was not meant to be kept locked inside some room, waiting for months on the whims of an unborn infant. She had never rocked baby dolls to sleep when she was a little girl; she had been the ill tempered child detached their heads and flung them across the room instead. Understandably, her maternal instincts, the so-called 'joy' the nurses nervously said she would come to feel, did not come.

When the baby finally came – announced by a shock of red hair and an ear-splitting wail, Ariana had held a quivering cigarette to her pale lips. The fact that her agitation had become sharp enough to slash at her psyche was excused as her eagerness to be back at Rocket HQ and by the Boss's side – where she belonged.

Unconsciously, Ariana runs a hand over the flat planes of her stomach. It is taut and firm again (she had spent the rest of that blasted maternity leave working off all the pregnancy weight), but she doesn't feel a trill of self-satisfaction at her accomplishments. A lot of women never manage to work the extra pounds off, but then again, Ariana isn't an ordinary woman.

It must be those unsightly stretch marks. Yes, that's it.

If Archer notices her expression, he doesn't comment. Domino, thankfully, is too entertained by the lights to pay any attention to her.

The elevator is efficient, but that does nothing to soothe Ariana's impatience. In half a minute's time, it descends past the ground floor. The lights stop moving at that, remaining fixed on the 'G.'

Ariana is the first one out when the doors open, stomping past Archer and the girl.

It's foolish, but relief washes over to her to find that the halls haven't changed. They're the same. Just like she remembered them. She inhales deeply through her nose, smelling what she identifies as the smell of home.

"Welcome home, Athena," Archer says, stepping up beside her quietly.

"It's good to be back," Ariana agrees.

Domino ambles past them, heading down the hallway that leads to the Boss's hallway.

"Stop it right there, brat," Ariana says maliciously. She grabs the girl by the collar of her uniform. "The Boss doesn't have time to meet with you."

The girl glares. "The Boss told me to report to him when I got here."

"I'm afraid Ariana's right," Archer says, false sympathy clouding his voice. "The Boss asked not to be disturbed by anyone."

"Then why is _she_ heading over there?"

Ariana narrows her eyes at the girl. "Because _I'm_ an actual Team Rocket operative, not a stray the Boss decided to take pity on and take in."

The girl turns away and mutters something that sounds like, "_bitch_."

Ariana is livid.

"What did you—"

"I can assure you that Ariana will not be disturbing him either," Archer interrupts diplomatically. "I'm sure you can meet with him later to discuss the details of your… report."

Domino sighs dramatically before half-turning and, with surprising alacrity, slapping Ariana's hand off her shirt. The woman draws her hand back, red eyes flashing in outrage. She steps forward to grab at the little brat again, but Domino is already walking off, leaving Ariana to seethe.

"That _girl_," she hisses, rubbing at her pale hand. "Someone needs to put her in her place."

Archer frowns and shakes his head. "Perhaps. But it isn't going to be one of us. Remember _your_ place."

"Of course," she spits. "Just because the Boss treats her like his own she thinks –"

"But those days are numbered, aren't they?" Archer asks rhetorically, and his eyes take on a fervent look. "Tell me. How's the heir?"

Ariana turns so that Archer cannot see her face.

"It's just three-months-old. All it does is eat, crap, sleep and _cry_," she winces at the memory of the boy's blood-curdling wail. "The set of lungs on that kid… its screaming almost drove me crazy."

"Well, aren't you the poster child for motherhood?"

"Can it."

His curiosity sated, Archer changes the subject.

"You know… I was fairly amused when the Boss saddled you with the responsibility of training her, but now I know from experience that it isn't very comical at all…"

It takes Ariana a moment to process the implications of his statement, but when she looks over at him, expecting a joke, she finds that his eyes have darkened, his hand rubbing at his forearm unconsciously.

"What do you mean?"

"I now have two young children under my… tutelage."

Ariana would – and by all rights _should –_ laugh at her comrade's misfortune, but the news of the Boss taking in two new strays is anything but encouraging. The first time had seemed harmless enough, but then that adorable little orphan girl with the face of an angel had grown into a venerable con artist with possessive and jealous streaks that rivaled Ariana's…. And, well, the higher-ups of the organization had forgotten all about the benefits of the occasional benevolent act. Domino walks around Rocket HQ like she owns the place, treating grunts and admins with the a haughty manner befitting a princess. The fact that Giovanni seldom reprimands her for her disrespect only contributes to the admins and executives' chagrin; in fact, she is often encouraged by the Boss to assert herself. It did not help any that most of the new recruits thought that Domino was the Boss's daughter either, though it was understandable – the girl certainly acts like it (and the Boss certainly dotes enough on her for it to be true).

The last thing Rocket HQ needs is another Domino, let alone _two_ more of her.

Archer goes on to explain how the children, two boys this time, were able to catch the Boss's eye. She is not expecting what she hears.

"_Oak_?" she repeats incredulously. "You mean _the_ Oak?"

He nods.

"The very same," he confirms. "The Boss was hoping to use the boy to blackmail Oak into providing some assistance to a few of R&D's top secret projects, but their disappearance generated an excessive amount of media attention and police involvement. At that point, the risks in blackmailing the old man far outweighed the potential benefits."

"Well obviously," Ariana says, lowering her voice as a few grunts walk past them. "Anyone with half a brain could have told you that the disappearance of an Oak, _any_ Oak, would have the press drooling."

"They were kidnapped under the Boss's orders, Ariana. You would do well to remember that before you criticize the way things turned out."

She bows her head remorsefully under Archer's reproachful stare, but when he looks away she rolls her eyes. Archer's jaw is tense, his posture rigid. He always gets like that at the slightest trace of an insult to the Boss's name. Ariana changes tactics. She smiles and leans forward, the fabric with the red 'R' on it stretching over her ample breasts.

"You're going to break them, aren't you?" she asks, dropping her tone a few octaves so that it is more a purr, rippling and velvety to his ears. She runs a single crimson nail against his chest, feeling the tense muscles beneath the fabric of his uniform.

Archer narrows his eyes, but she can tell that he is amused. "Careful, Athena," he whispers, teeth flashing in warning. "Remember who you belong to."

The woman leans in, undeterred. She bares her teeth in a smile.

"I belong to no one, Archer."

This is a well-worn game that the two of them play. Seduction is a skill that all agents should be well versed in, as there are some targets that cannot be reached with brute force or cunning alone.

Ariana is many things, but she is a lady above all else. It becomes apparent in the way she walks, the clothes she puts on (all red – the color of passion, of power, of lust), how she gives you a demure smile with her full ruby lips. She is a dangerous woman, irresistible to men who cannot resist the thrill of poison rushing into their veins.

The Boss is one such man, and perhaps he is the only one that can bend her will to his own.

(A memory:

"Team Rocket and I require an heir."

"I refuse to recognize any other leader but you, sir."

"Your loyalty is but one of the many qualities I have come to admire about you, Ariana, but we must be realistic. I will not live forever. After I'm gone, someone will have to take the reins of this organization."

"I had assumed that – that you had taken in Domino for that purpose, sir."

"Domino? No. The organization would never acknowledge Domino as its leader. If I did name her as my successor, she would be deposed quickly. No, no. Domino is talented, but I recognize that she is meant to work in the field, not to command. If the organization were ever to acknowledge a new leader, it would have to be a child of mine… which is why I have called you here, Ariana."

"Sir?"

"You are an exemplary agent and possess many of the qualities all members of Team Rocket should aspire to. I would be very pleased if you would consider being the mother of Team Rocket's heir."

"Anything for you, sir."

_She never wanted to be a mother, but for him, she would do anything_).

And then there is Archer, who refuses to play her game, to let her sink her fangs into the musky skin of his neck. His power over her comes not from immunity to her poison, but his refusal to partake in it. Ariana is a woman who always gets what she wants, and for Archer to refuse her, well… it only makes the long, drawn-out chase all the more thrilling.

"These boys," Archer begins, voice flat even as Ariana's nails scrape their way along his jawline, "are quite resilient. The Oak boy has made quite a name for himself in the Pit over the past few weeks."

With some pressure applied, her nails begin to dig into his skin. Archer doesn't flinch, but something lights up in his eyes.

Masochists, Ariana thinks, are always the easiest to crack. The way they go crazy over a little pain is really quite endearing, and their thirst for it is something Ariana is all too willing to slake. Just draw a little blood, unbutton their tight collars, and –

The sound of footsteps coming down the hallway makes Ariana pull back, albeit reluctantly. She sticks her bottom lip out in a pout, leaning against the wall and watching him with half-lidded eyes. Archer keeps his eyes on her while he smoothes down the creases in his uniform and adjusts its collar before the passing grunts can round the corner and catch him looking so disheveled.

The leftover lines of red across his jaw are something he can't just smooth away. Ariana takes much more satisfaction in that than she should.

"I really did miss you, Archer." She laughs when the grunts have passed, pausing to salute crisply and gaze at Ariana in something she likes to think is awe. "I've been out of the game for far too long."

"Your absence contributed to our cause in a way that I never could," Archer reminds her tacitly, azure eyes resting on her stomach. Frowning, Ariana drapes a hand across it, covering it from his gaze. Archer's eyes meet her own, and there is something almost like tenderness hanging there. "Does our future leader have a name?"

Ariana turns away and begins making her way to the Boss's office.

_Those damn stretch marks again…_

"Silver."

She says this without looking back, but the Rocket Admin catches the tone in her voice – the dissonant undercurrent of melancholy.

His laugh chases her down the hallway, muting the sound of her heels against the tile. "Remember – it was an honor!"

Her hand, still resting against her stomach, begins to quiver.

Scowling, she forces her hand to move at her side in time with her footsteps, the sway of her hips.

_An honor_, Ariana thinks dubiously, _right._

* * *

><p><em>AN: Since this is part one of Act II (the whole of Act II was a bit too long to post as one update), I _will _have the next update up on time_. _Count on it._

_Once again, thank you all for your reviews! I greatly enjoy hearing from all of you! If you were anon and I couldn't reply to you via PM, I'll reply here._

**interested anon:**_ Thank you for your review! It's great to hear from you again! I'm actually quite fond of Giovanni. It probably has to do with the fact that I have the plot all planned out and know how things are going to unroll, but I'm actually writing him out to be one of the most prominent (and pragmatic) moral compasses of the story. As for Green, yeah... he is buying into the approval and attention Giovanni is showing him, so he's absorbing TR's views and practices like a sponge. Again, thank you for the review, and I hope you like this installment! I hope to hear from you again!_

**ponponpon:** _Thank you so much for your review! I appreciate the fact that you're enjoying it and want to read it through the end! It's true; no child should be put through what Red and Green are being put through in this story. Still, I'm glad you've enjoyed reading so far and hope that you continue to enjoy! I hope to hear from you again!_

**Shoe:** _ I really appreciate the time it took for you to read and review, so thank you! I am glad that you like the concept - it was given to me by an anonymous poster on the Pokémon Big Bang prompts post_, _and I also immediately was fascinated by it. I hope that I continue to do it justice and that you continue to read and enjoy this story. I hope to hear from you again!_

**smile:**_ Thank you for your review! I do enjoy writing about Red and Green, so I'm happy that you enjoy reading about them. I'm sorry to say that most of the pokémon get the short end of the stick in this story, so the situation won't be improving for them... I'm afraid that Green, who's never really had much of a father figure in this verse, is very susceptible to Giovanni's manipulation. Again, thank you for your review! I hope that you continue to read and enjoy the story! I hope to hear from you again!_

_Thank you for reading this chapter! As always, _I'd love to hear what you think, so don't hesitate to drop a review or some feedback. Likewise, if you have any questions, feel free to include those. _I look forward to hearing from you, and be sure to tune in again next week for the second part of Act II!___


	4. Act II, Part 2

_Notes: I know it's not Monday, but I think this has been delayed long enough. Sorry again for the late update. This half of the chapter was formerly characterized by a lot of backstory, which I felt the need to curb and introduce in other chapters through dialogue and other less obtrusive methods. I hope it was worth the wait!_

_Chapter-specific warnings: heavy language, violent scene, dark themes._

___Disclaimer: Pokémon - its characters, setting, and all other borrowed elements - is the sole property of its creators. I am not profiting from this in any form.___

* * *

><p><em>Act II (Part 2)<em>

She was only away for about three months, but it had felt like years. Sure, the Boss's mansion was big and lavishly furnished (kind of place she expects to own herself one day), but the mission he assigned her had prevented her from really taking advantage of all the amenities.

(A briefing:

"I'm busy, so I can't welcome the baby myself," the Boss had told her gravely, "so I'm sending you in my place. Be my eyes and ears and give me a detailed report when you return. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

Giovanni gave her a thin-lipped smile and reached across his desk to pat her head. "Thank you for your service, Domino. There is a helicopter waiting for you on the roof.")

It wasn't like Domino hadn't known that the "mission" wasn't code for "make sure the hag doesn't ruin the baby." What she had not known, however, was just how _boring_ it would be. Ariana hardly paid any attention to the baby, so Domino's stay at the villa had been dull from the very start. She wasn't expecting high-risk espionage or anything, but _c'mon_. Stuck watching a baby for three months? It was _torture._ Really, the guys in Intelligence should really think about making forced babysitting part of their routine.

All baby Silver knew how to do was eat, sleep and poop. Maybe he had been cute for the first few days (and if anyone ever accused her of having a soft spot for the kid, she'd deck 'em), but after a while his crying had gotten _really_ annoying. It was just unsightly for the Boss's kid to spend each minute of every day crying his eyes out. It must have been the hag's influence.

Still, despite their differences, Domino had been just as eager as Ariana to return to HQ.

All Domino can remember are the windowless halls of Rocket HQ, the raucous laughter of the grunts while they ate in the mess hall, the Boss's approving look as she demonstrated the new martial arts moves she'd been taught (and mastered) earlier that day. Rocket HQ is the only home she's ever known. What came before that, well, she doesn't know. Whenever she asks Giovanni about it, he frowns and hides the truth in those dark eyes of his, denying it to her.

It's not like she cares, though. Team Rocket is all she'll ever need. Besides, it's much more fun to make up lots of stories about her past. She relishes the looks on the new recruits' faces whenever one of the grunts asks her to regale them with the story of her childhood.

Speaking of which….

After leaving the hag and the stiff behind in the hallway, Domino makes her way to the mess hall. She's eager to see the familiar faces of the grunts again, maybe fuck with a new recruit or two by telling them that the casino pool was open to Team Rocket members at night. It's always fun to get the gullible ones in trouble with that one.

But when she opens the doors to the mess hall and starts walking toward her customary table, she finds that it is already taken.

Occupied by new recruits, no less.

They look to be a year or two older than her. Upon closer inspection, they're definitely not old enough to be grunts. Hell, they looked like they belong in diapers, crying for their mommies to kiss their boo-boos and make them warm milk.

What, then, were they doing at Rocket HQ? Especially sitting at _her_ table in the mess hall.

Smoothing down her frown into non-expression, she walks toward them. When she is noticed, there are shouts of "hey, it's Domino!" and "_that's_ Domino?" The ones who really know her, see the set of her shoulders and the intentness in her eyes hush the other idiots, whisper "get ready for a show."

It's the black-haired one that notices her first. He stares at her with wide, expressionless eyes an eerie shade of red. Something in that stare makes her falter for a second (there is something familiar there beneath the surface, in the angles of his face, the space between his eyes, the curvature of his nose – little girls have the best intuition, after all), but she forces the apprehensiveness down and continues.

When she shows no sign of changing direction, the other boy looks up. He's pale-faced and green-eyed, hair all chestnut-brown and messy; a part of her is almost tempted to giggle vapidly, but Domino is a little girl raised by men. She's learned to push the boys that make her feel funny instead of laugh about them.

The green-eyed boy's eyes have narrowed by the time she stops in front of the table, her arms crossed. She meets his eyes and stares him down. Silently, she waits for him to make the first move.

The mess is uncharacteristically silent, and she relishes it. Domino likes having a captive audience.

"What do you want?" the boy demands, his arms crossed over his narrow chest.

"You're sitting at my table," she replies.

The kid deliberately makes a show of looking. "I don't see your name on it."

"Look closer, dumbass," she insists. Her lips quirk at the edges when the boy's cheeks grow pink at her insult. "I mean, if you can even read."

The silence is punctuated by a pervasive snickering and a few sharp intakes of breath. Pink blooms across the boy's pale face, his jaw working tightly. The weird boy just turns his crimson eyes to the tabletop. Silently, he runs a finger against the scratched in letters – _B.T._

"You disrespectin' my friend here, bitch?"

Domino turns toward the speaker and finds that it's just another teenage boy in the telltale gray uniform of new recruits; too easy.

"_You_ talking to _me_, pizza-face?" Domino sneers, leaning back against her table.

And she had thought the green-eyed kid had poor control; this one positively _seethes._

"Do you know who're talking to?"

Domino feigns pensiveness, putting a hand on her chin and rubbing thoughtfully. "Let me see… a pimple-faced faggot who's covering for his boyfriend?" She hears an outraged choking sound from behind her. Domino's smirk widens. She feigns excitement now. "Am I right?"

"You dumbass _bitch_ –"

_Pow! _Once he gets close enough, Domino swings a left hook and hits him square in the crooked teeth. The boy lets out a long yowl of pain and staggers backward, hands covering at his gaping mouth. Blood spurts and seeps out from in between his stubby fingers. The assembled grunts respond with cheers and amazed sounds.

Domino flexes her lethal little fists; a few of her knuckles crack satisfyingly. "Don't poke your ugly-ass nose into what isn't your business."

But the punk comes at her again, shouting profanities and hoping to patch up his wounded pride. Domino decides to forego another warning shot. Dropping into a crouch, she sweeps her right leg out and knocks the boy's feet out from under him. The idiot falls onto his back, his head landing against the linoleum tiles with a pleasant _thunk._

"Get up again and I'll go for your balls," Domino warns, her tone saccharine sweet.

The recruit responds with a bedraggled, dazed moan that is swallowed up by the cheers and congratulatory yelps of the assembled grunts.

Spinning on her heel to face the pale kid again, she offers him a sugary smile. He's positively pallid now, green eyes wide. The weirdo keeps his gaze on the table.

"You gonna get up?" the blonde asks. Tilting her head to the side, her hair falls around her face like a golden halo. "Or do I have to teach you a lesson, too?"

She expects the kid to get up and back down after a display like that. Hell, even get up and come at her. But he doesn't do any of those things. He just stares at her for a few long moments, nostrils flaring, before shutting his eyes for a few moments. When he opens them, the outrage, indignation, embarrassment – it's all gone.

Huh, Domino thinks. That's new.

"How about we play a game?" the kid says. He drums his fingers on the tabletop leisurely. "If you win, you get to keep your table. If I win, we keep it."

Domino's response is to scowl, but her heart is going all pitter-patter in her chest.

"What do you think I am? Stupid? Why would I ever make a bet on something I already own? Just give it up."

The kid quirks an eyebrow. "So you're too _chicken_ to go up against me? Should've known you would be. You're a _girl_, after all."

Domino's heart is pitter-pattering for an entirely different reason now.

The challenge has been issued. Her reputation has been insulted. There's only one way to rectify the situation now, isn't there?

"Alright then," she says tightly. "What kind of 'game?'"

The boy smiles at her in response – the sight is oddly familiar, almost as if it were a caricature of something she's seen before…

— . . . —

Even a man like Giovanni finds it difficult to concentrate when there is a beautiful woman draped across his desk, her eyes inviting and challenging all at once.

"Something told me I would find you here," Giovanni admits, his deep laughter echoing in the dark office.

How she got past his secretary and the locks on his office door he'll never know, but the fact that she still can is just the reminder he needs of thing things this woman can do. He closes the door behind him and makes his way into his office.

Ariana smiles. "Well, when I arrived and you weren't there to receive me, I thought it would only be appropriate for me to give you the opportunity to do so."

"I apologize, my dear. I was otherwise indisposed."

He does not offer anything else by way of explanation. He does not need to.

Nevertheless, it is clear that she was hoping for more. Her smile wavers as he hangs his jacket up on his coatrack. He goes to the small bar to pour two glasses from their decanters – scotch for him, whiskey for her (he's always appreciated her taste for the strong stuff). When he walks up to her and hands her the glass, she takes it and gives him a grateful quirk of the lips. Any trace of disappointment is gone from her visage when she takes her first grateful swallow.

"I imagine you must have missed being able to do that."

Ariana's answer is to turn over so that she is facing him, setting the now empty glass on the edge of the desk with a self-satisfied smirk on her face. "Like you wouldn't believe," she qualifies rather unnecessarily.

He looks into her auburn eyes for a few moments, considering. Then, he speaks. "I'm pleased that you saved me the trouble of finding you," Giovanni admits. Ariana's answering smirk, lascivious and appreciative, is waved off. "What you have done for Team Rocket – and for me personally – during the last year is invaluable. It is because of your unparalleled dedication to this organization that I am promoting you. Congratulations, Admin Ariana. I continue to expect your loyalty and dedication."

The look in her eyes is one of victory, almost as if she had expected to extort this from him. Still, Giovanni had decided to toss her this bone. Saddling Ariana with his child and giving her longstanding partner a promotion may not have been unfair (especially since bearing the future leader of Team Rocket carried with it a number of inherent benefits), but the Boss never believed in splitting up effective teams. Ariana and Archer – or Athena and Apollo, as his men referred to them – had always been two of his best agents. They were much better together than alone. It was only logical to preserve their dynamic.

"Thank you, sir," she purrs, stretching across his desk like a spoilt persian. "I am so grateful for this opportunity… but may I voice my first administrative concern?"

"What is it?"

She sits up and lets her legs dangle on either side of his chair. Her arms squeeze in, making the 'R' on her chest stretch along her breasts. Giovanni keeps his eyes on her face, though. A small smirk thins his lips at the slight twist of disappointment in her eyes.

"I noticed that – well. You'll excuse me for saying this, but there seems to be an increasing number of children running around the halls these days."

"You are referring to the two boys that I placed under Archer's tutelage."

It is a statement, not a question.

"Exactly," Ariana says. "Team Rocket isn't a daycare center, sir. We're hardly fit to babysit a bunch of children. Your habit of taking in strays is commendably benevolent, Gio, but it's not feasible. In my opinion –"

"That's exactly right," the Boss cuts her off. "It is your _opinion_. _I_ am the only person capable of deciding what the appropriate usage of this organization's resources entails. You would do well to remember who you take orders from, _Admin_ Ariana."

Ariana rears back at the sound of the Boss's tone. She looks as if he had just slapped her across the face. He keeps his eyes on her, the look hard and angry.

"Have I made myself clear?" he asks.

The admin stares at him for a few moments before nodding choppily, lips twisted in muted indignation.

"Yes. Of course, sir. I apologize for my presumptuousness."

"Then don't let it happen again." He leans back in his chair, appetite slaked. "Leave me."

She swings her legs over to the side of the table. Quickly and efficiently, she jumps down, smoothing her hands down the rumpled fabric of her skirt.

"Your heir's name is Silver, sir," she says quietly. She makes her way to the door, the clacking of her red-soled heels ringing against the hardwood floors of his office. "Just as you requested."

Giovanni considers reprimanding her again for her words, but lets them slide of his shoulders instead.

He stays quiet until she shuts the door behind her.

"Silver," he murmurs, testing the name on his tongue.

His son.

Already there are expectations being placed on his tiny shoulders. If something were to happen to Giovanni, then Silver would be expected to fulfill his father's ambitions. If something happened to the current Boss before his heir was old enough to do so, a regency would take the reins of the organization in the interim. Doubtlessly, Team Rocket's interim boss would be Archer in such a scenario.

And yet the old adage holds true:

The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.

It's not that Giovanni doesn't trust Ariana – he wouldn't have asked just anyone to be the mother of Team Rocket's future leader. This trust, however, is similar to the stock a snake charmer puts in the lethal ekans he keeps in his wicker basket.

Ariana is competent and loyal, but she is also ambitious. Unlike Archer, whose dimmed affect allows the Boss to trust him with the responsibility of leading his organization in good faith for the heir, he does not believe that Ariana would hand over the reins of power so graciously. He doesn't doubt that Ariana would let the boy be the Rocket Boss, but it would be in name only. Ariana would be the power behind the throne, and Archer, for all his ambitionless loyalty, would enable her. Giovanni knows people well enough to know that everyone has a weakness. Archer is no different.

Of course, it is highly unlikely that something _would_ happen to Giovanni; his cover as the Viridian Gym Leader is impeccable, and the League would never suspect one of their own, especially one of his reputation and history. The archetypal terrorist still dresses in the traditional garb and straps voltorbs to his chest, screaming about honor in the old language before ordering them to self-destruct. Giovanni, in his suits and unaccented and fluent English, is miles away from this stereotype.

If the Boss has it his way, he will still be around long after the need for Team Rocket disappears. There would be plenty of time to teach the boy everything he needed to know.

Silver represents the dawn of a new era, both for Team Rocket and the country. Perhaps it is a bit unfair to place such responsibility on the infant, but this is why Giovanni has his "strays."

Admittedly, he hadn't taken them in with this mind.

The boys had been a miscalculation, one that he still regrets in a way. The other boy may be a dud, but _Green – _Green Oak is provides a strong case that there is a genetic component to mastery.

Giovanni may turn a blind eye to the illicit activities of the Pit, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't pay attention to what comes from it. Green's ferocity and ruthlessness have not escaped the Boss's notice. The boy's talents are rudimentary to be sure – perhaps even volatile – but they show promise. With the proper guidance, Green could grow to be an Executive. Maybe he could even act as young Silver's right hand.

Red's recalcitrant compassion renders him incapable of having the potential his friend does, but there are uses for people like him. The boy is unquestionably intelligent. There is still time to figure out a use for him.

Besides, as tough as Green acts, Giovanni knows that he still needs Red in some way. The younger boy is his weakness. The Boss only hopes that it isn't a fatal one.

And then there is Domino.

In Giovanni's third year as the Rocket Boss, he had ordered that rival gangs in Celadon either be absorbed into the ranks or disbanded. It was a precarious move, one that required the Rockets to go out into the open and tiptoe around the police. Giovanni had his misgivings about how worthwhile the venture would be, but he had no qualms about its necessity.

Madame Boss may have carved a humble niche for the Rockets in the criminal underworld, but Giovanni wanted control over the entire thing.

Crime had become endemic in Kanto, though it was a common problem among the other regions as well. The systematic deconstruction of the nation's industry and infrastructure had left the country with thousands of homebound soldiers but no jobs for them to take. Poverty became rampant in the once proud nation. Their Unovan overlords' implementation of the League system and subsequent shift to a pokémon-based economy had been both costly and time-consuming. It took a long decade for new jobs to be created in anything resembling a significant amount – the Joys, the PokéMart cashiers, the Jennies, the gym leaders and other regional League employees.

Needless to say, a decade was too long.

With the legitimate channels of employment denied to them, many of the soldiers turned to crime. With so many men trained to kill set loose upon the populace, society was brought to chaos. It wasn't a problem that the then-nascent Pokémon League could deal with. There were only so many jobs involved in reconstruction, especially with Orre devastated beyond repair by the atomic bombs and much of the nation's factories gone.

It was his mother that had first taken advantage of the situation.

The woman who would become known as Madame Boss was the wife of a Kamikaze pilot. Unfortunately for her, the man had never made it to the cockpit. A bullet to the upper thigh crippled him as he was running to his plane during one of Unova's preemptive strikes a few miles east of the Sevii Islands. The wound necessitated immediate amputation.

The Madame had the misfortune of being a woman in a male-dominated society. There were few alternatives for a woman who was saddled with the burden of caring for her crippled husband, especially with so many able-bodied men returning home from the war to compete with. In the years to come progressive Unovan politics would trickle across the sea and spur a feminist movement to press for equal rights, but by that time Madame Boss was in her fifties and had long since cemented her role as the criminal lynchpin of Team Rocket.

Whether or not his mother had actually been a prostitute is not something Giovanni ever found out for sure. He suspects she was, though**. **She certainly behaved like a whore.

Either way, it was in those murky post-war years that his mother began to spin her web. Even though she would have been better off had her husband succeeded in making it into his plane that day, his plight made her sympathetic to men who had served in the defunct military themselves. Over time the woman's connections would span a respectable portion of Celadon City's criminal underworld, from the drug trade to prostitution. (It was for this that she received the title of "madame.") Once a petty criminal herself, the Madame had become don, lynchpin and pimp to about a hundred individuals. This network of connections would eventually coalesce into a loose affiliation known as Team Rocket.

It was her son that saw the organization's true potential, though.

The man that would become the Rocket Boss was born six years after the conclusion of the Great War, but he was still in time to feel its aftershocks quite keenly.

Giovanni had not been the son the Madame was expecting. He was not particularly interested in his mother's achievements. Instead, he took to challenging her authority at a young age, taking her beatings with pained satisfaction at the realization that he could outwit her. His final challenge**, **choosing to pursue a career in genetic engineering at Silph Corporation, had earned him disinheritance.

"Ungrateful boy!" his mother had seethed when he told her of what he was going to do. "After everything I've done for you –"

Giovanni had merely shaken his head.

"I owe you nothing, Mother."

She had slapped him then, her wrinkled hand striking out at his cheek. There was less force behind her slap than Giovanni remembered**;** he had barely flinched. When he looked at his mother's hand, he took in the wrinkles and the age spots. When he turned his eyes to her, he was struck for the very first time just how small and frail she was.

"I have made my decision," Giovanni said levelly. "Either accept it or have one of your contracts put out for me. I don't care what you do. I'm making my own way in life."

"Go, then!" she had shrieked, her old voice straining. "Take your small town wench and your scientist job**,** and leave your mother to rot! I will not see you again, boy! I will _not_ have you in my sight! You have dishonored me beyond measure! Get out of my sight!"

Two years later, she was dead. That had been the last time he had spoken to her.

Giovanni had not grieved for her.

It was only with the increased distance from the organization that Giovanni began to see the bigger picture. He had traveled as a trainer for a few years as an adolescent before attending university, but it was his job at Silph that had truly opened his eyes to the reality of things.

Years before he moved there, Saffron City had been considered one of the most crime-ridden areas in the region. Yet the metropolis he saw during his time was nothing like what it had been made out to be. Crime was present of course (that much was inevitable wherever you went), but it was remarkably contained to the inner city. Jennies were out in full force, patrolling the business, middle and upper class residential, and gym districts. Businesses like the Silph Corporation, one of the first Kanto-based companies to adapt to and subvert the pokémon-based economy, had moved in, and Saffron was thriving. Unlike Celadon, which kept up the façade of safety due to its status as the (former) capitol, Saffron's prosperity was genuine.

At first Giovanni had attributed this to the city's geographic centrality – close enough to Vermillion to make use of the ports with little transportation cost, just a few miles east of the capitol (an insurance that the _close_ relationship between Saffron's business district and the Diet of Kanto would be preserved), and only a few miles south of Cerulean, which gave the area better access to the Power Plant, the cape's fisheries, and the rich ore deposits of Mt. Moon.

But then Giovanni had remembered when his mother had expanded her influence to include Saffron.

Everything fell into place after that.

The casino had been such a devil's nest back in his mother's day and was subsequently the target of frequent raids. The underground hideout that Giovanni would transform into Rocket Headquarters, in fact, was constructed as a way for the Madame and her higher-ups to hide from the Jennies when they conducted such a raid.

The Unovans and their Pokémon League may have taken credit for the upturn of the country's economy in the early 50s, but they had very little to do with it. In truth, it was the influence of criminal syndicates like Team Rocket that would restore some semblance of order.

Unified under one banner, Team Rocket members took orders directly from the Madame. His mother may have been greedy, but she was too cautious to condone the robbing of banks and targeting of high profile persons of interest. She had much preferred the so-called "victimless crimes" of vice – prostitution, gambling, smuggling, drugs… and in the short years that the Unovans tried their failed venture of prohibition on their "protectorate," boozing.

Giovanni realized that Team Rocket had unknowingly done its part to rescue Kanto from the chaos that threatened to overtake it in the post-war years. Despite his mother's impure intentions, something good had come from the syndicate's inception after all.

The organization of criminals prevented widespread crime and anarchy because it gave the hopelessly unemployed a venue through which they could feed their families. There was no question that Team Rocket and many of its counterparts were destructive. With the bosses' singular direction, however, their inherent devastation was so finely channeled and focused that society as a whole went relatively unaffected. These organizations also fostered the creation of a black market, which became vital to the survival of many of the region's poorer sectors. When the markets were plagued with shortages, the black market was always replete with food smuggled in from the mainland. If one was well connected or willing to work for them, they would not go hungry.

The Boss's movement toward consolidating Team Rocket's power over the other criminal enterprises was based on this kind of thinking. While many of his men handled some of the negotiations, Giovanni was often forced to attend to some of the time-consuming business himself.

On one such night, walking back to the casino after a rather unsuccessful meeting (he had to have his men take care of the problem for him), he stumbled upon the first of his strays.

It is still all too common a sight to see orphaned children sleeping on the streets. This reality is usually only known to those who are willing to look for it. The cities do a good job of herding tourists and traveling trainers to the entertainment and gym districts and away from the slums.

Giovanni's line of work ensures that he sees this often, however. He had thought that perhaps he'd been desensitized to the sight, but he wasn't anywhere near prepared for the sight that greeted him in that alleyway.

He had caught sight of the slumped form first. Then he saw the puddle of dried blood on the cement.

How unfortunate, he thought. A prostitute, perhaps? Most people would leave her out to rot then. Not every organization gave their working girls as much protection as the Rockets did.

That was when he saw the girl.

She was slumped on the ground beside the dead woman, huddled up and curled up into the fetal position. Her hair was what caught his eye. It was caked with filth, but he could still make out the faint luster of dingy gold underneath. Her face looked young underneath all the grime; she couldn't be that much older than three-years-old.

At first he thought the worst. She didn't seem to be moving. Something wrenched his stomach like a vice. Then he saw her eyes. They were wide open and staring at him.

There was no fear there.

Giovanni let out the breath he didn't know he was holding in. Pulling himself together, he approached the little girl. Upon closer inspection, she was gaunt and almost skeletal – definitely malnourished. She seemed too small for a girl her age as well. She would die here, if he left her.

"What's your name?" Giovanni had asked her.

The girl's eyes had looked up into his. They were listless. Her hand, he noticed, was on the woman's abdomen, resting right where the wound is.

"Dunno…" she answered. Her voice had been so low and rough that it sounded like that of an old woman, not a young girl.

"Is that woman your mother?"

The girl nodded. "The bad men came. They said she didn't pay her moneys. They hurt her, and now she won't get up."

"I see…"

Silence fell over them. In the distance, there was the faint sound of a scream. The police didn't patrol the area, as it was entrenched within gang territory. If he left her behind, there was no question of what her fate would be.

"You must be hungry," Giovanni said, breaking the silence. "Why don't you come with me? I'm on my way back home. There's more than enough food for you there."

The girl hesitated. "What about her?"

Giovanni forced himself to nod reassuringly at her. "Your mother can come as well. I'll have some friends of mine come get her. They'll make sure she's safe."

She seemed to consider this for a short while before nodding her agreement.

The Rocket Boss had stooped down and scooped her into his arms as tenderly as he could. Together, they had left that dark, bloodstained alley behind.

Giovanni had kept his promise. That very night, a few grunts had converged on the alley and retrieved the woman's body. The Boss had paid for a small, private burial. It was carried out quickly and quietly, hardly the last rites anyone deserved, but it was more that could have been said about her if she had been left to rot in the slums. The little girl had held his hand loosely as the casket was lowered into the ground, but she hadn't cried.

Before shoveling the mound of dirt onto the casket, Giovanni had handed the girl a few flowers. Her eyes widened with surprise. Giovanni wondered if she had ever seen flowers before.

"What're these?" she asked softly.

"Black tulips," he replied. "They are for your mother."

The girl had traced her index finger along the smooth petals of the delicate flower. After a few moments of this, she had hesitantly walked over to the edge of the grave and tossed them in.

When they had made it back to HQ, he discovered that she had kept one of the tulips. She had hid it from him, fearful that he would make her toss it into the grave with the others. It was the first time he had considered her potential as a Team Rocket operative. He was understandably pleased when the girl turned out to be a natural martial artist and liar.

What greater honor was there to fight for one's country? Domino was a child, yes, but at least her life would have purpose.

In his cultural views, Giovanni had always been something of a nationalist. Like many of his generation, he resented the League's dominion. Still, Giovanni accepted it. He may have been born soon enough after the war that he grew up around the lost generation of former soldiers, but he had never known anything but League rule. He heard stories of the great days of empire, of honor, tradition and sovereignty, but he never had the chance to experience them himself. Thus deprived, Giovanni did not question it as much as some did.

It was the mentorship of one of his superiors in Silph that opened his eyes to the nationalistic cause.

Dr. Fuji had been a member of the Ministry of Defense back when it had still existed. Born at the turn of the century, he would prove instrumental in the modernization of the nation's military. He was also one of the first scientists to propose the usage of pokémon as biological weapons. The usage of koffing and voltorb as explosives against the enemy forces during the war (now used by many a suicide bomber) had been his brainchild. Miraculously, the Pokémon League did not arrest and try him for war crimes. It was rumored that he'd secured a pardon from one of the high-ranking government officials who still had clout. Deprived of his career in the public sector, the private sector was all too happy to take him in.

Something about Giovanni had inspired the old man to take him under his wing.

"You remind me of my own son," Fuji explained when Giovanni had asked why. "He's studying at Mauville University in Hoenn—genetic engineering. Like you."

Over time, the old man's opinions started to imprint themselves upon Giovanni's psyche.

"Government should not derive its power from the threat of force," Fuji had said once over dinner in one of Saffron's high-end restaurants. "The right to govern should lie in the consent of the governed. Tell me, Giovanni, when did the Pokémon League ever hold an election?"

Giovanni didn't know.

"I have no idea, sir."

"The answer is never," the old man had let out a bitter chuckle.

Slowly, the kernel the doctor had dropped in Giovanni's mind began to take root**.**

Dr. Fuji had also fostered Giovanni's interest in pokémon experimentation. The subject was taboo after the war (and Fuji was hired to Silph under the stipulation that he would not conduct any experiments of the sort), so Fuji seldom spoke of it. Whenever he did, it always filled Giovanni with a sense of wonder.

One day, Fuji had spoken to him about the theories of pokémon cloning he'd come up with during the war.

"We didn't have the technology at the time, but we were already thinking ahead. In the last few months of the war the funding to my department was tripled in an effort to make this possible."

He handed Giovanni the crinkled papers, their yellowed surface riddled with scribbles, labeled diagrams, and notes in Fuji's cramped script. They detailed some trials in which they had rather primitively attempted to modify the genetic code of an alakazam in an effort to increase its psychic powers.

Giovanni's eyes had widened at the implications.

"With power like that we could have –"

"Won the war, yes." Fuji interrupted him. The old man had run a weathered hand over his greying hair, his weakening form shuddering with a sigh. "But it's no use in crying over spilled milk. We should get back to the task of hand – now, isolate the gene for pesticide resilience – yes, good."

Even after Giovanni left Silph to lead Team Rocket, the doctor's theories lingered in his mind like the mischievous gastly that lingered in a half-forgotten tower that Fuji often rambled on and on about. Always hovering at the back of his mind, tantalizing and seemingly unattainable.

_With power like that we could have -_

_taken over the League._

One day they would succeed.

One day they would take their country back.

And what greater honor is there to devote oneself to such a cause? Domino may be young, but Giovanni has rescued her from death's door and transformed her into a warrior.

It is plain to see that Giovanni is rather fond of the little girl, however. No matter what outrageous stunt Domino is implicated in, he cannot seem to bring himself to discipline her seriously. He even takes more pride in her achievements than in the organization's at times.

(He wonders if this is what it's like to be a father, and isn't sure if this would be a good or bad thing.

And if it is Green that occupies his mind more and more – thoughts of his skills, musings of his future, pride for his progress – well, what of it? Domino is already on her way to learning how to carry the burden of a dead nation's honor and desire for retribution. His own son is just an infant. He is much too young to learn those things. Green is not. Ariana's concerns are still baseless).

Presently, the buzz of the intercom jars him from his thoughts. He hurriedly jabs at the device, caught off guard by the sound.

"Yes?" he growls.

"Please excuse me for the interruption, sir, but the administrative meeting begins in ten minutes. Would you like me to postpone it?"

"That won't be necessary."

"Understood, sir."

The speaker crackles sharply before cutting off, leaving Giovanni in silence.

He takes a few moments to push his thoughts and memories to the back of his mind. Then, taking a deep breath through his aquiline nose, he rises from his seat and walks out of his office.

"Make sure to change the locks," he says to his secretary as he walks past her desk.

"Yes, sir. I'll call the janitorial staff to do that immediately."

— . . . —

Archer is the first on his feet when the Boss enters the room.

"Hail, Giovanni!" he says.

His colleagues echo the acknowledgement as they also rise to their feet.

The Boss looks a bit harried today, Archer notices. The blue-haired man sends a look at Ariana across the table. The woman is stunning in admin-rank black, but her face looks similarly afflicted.

Ah, so it's one of _those_ disputes…

"Sit," Giovanni intones. Obediently, his administrators lower themselves into their seats. The Boss nods at Archer, and the admin rises again to present the meeting's agenda.

"The Boss would like to hear your reports on your progress," Archer says. "Gideon, perhaps you should begin."

Frowning to himself, the reedy, bespectacled man begins to give his report in his nasal voice. Gideon is a scientist, but he is also chief of the Department of Research and Development. The position technically brings him at the administrative rank. A fugitive from the League for his illegal experimentation on pokémon subjects, the Boss had offered the man asylum and full funding for his projects if he joined the organization. Needless to say, the man had agreed.

Archer knows that his opinions do not matter in grand scheme of things, but he is suspicious of the scientist (he is suspicious of anyone who does not share his loyalty to the Boss).

But of course, Archer's opinions do not matter. Gideon's contributions have been instrumental to their agenda. He is comforted, though, by the thought that the Boss did not trust the scientist with the sample they'd taken from Pallet Forest (then again, not even Archer was aware of what that sample was, or even what it was being used for).

They are hardly ten minutes through a bored description of Gideon's newest project – some kind of high-pitched frequency that would force pokémon to evolve – when there is a knock on the door.

The irritation on the Boss's face is clear, and Archer moves quickly and quietly to answer. When he opens the door, he finds Marlena, the Boss's secretary, her face shadowed with reluctance.

"We are in the middle of an administrative meeting," he hisses. "This better be important."

She steps out of the way, and Archer's eyes narrow with cold anger at the sight.

As caught up in his (and the Boss's) anger as he was, Archer had not noticed the children before the woman had silently pointed them out.

There is a bruise blossoming around the Oak boy's right eye and his lip is split (not his handiwork). Domino's hair is more of a mess than usual. The dud seems unscathed, his clothes a bit rumpled; relative to the state of the other two's uniforms, however, his youngest trainee looks absolutely pristine.

"They got into a fight in the mess hall," Marlena says, biting down on her lower lip anxiously. "The boy set his pokémon on Domino after she punched him. The punishment for such behavior is clear, but given the… special circumstances… I thought I would bring this to the Boss's attention."

The worst part about this is that they don't even look repentant. Oak has his arms crossed, brow furrowed petulantly. Domino looks incredibly satisfied, like the meowth that managed to nab the caged swablu. The dud, of course, doesn't look anything other than his default expression—despondent.

Gritting his teeth, Archer quietly steps over the threshold and closes the door as quietly as possible.

"I'll handle them," he says.

Marlena nods before taking off down the hall, no doubt relieved to be let off the hook.

He levels each of the children with a furious glare before speaking. "If you were entertaining the notion that the Boss himself would be handling your cases, then you're mistaken. He is busy and does not have time to deal with three impudent children. Team Rocket does not tolerate violence between its members."

"_She _started it!" Green blurts.

"Shut it!" Domino retorts.

"_She_ told us that the table we were sitting at wasn't ours –"

"It _isn't_!"

"…and when Jose told her to leave us alone _she_ was the one that beat him up –"

"He deserved it!"

"…so we played a game betting the table but _she_ cheated –"

"I did not!"

"Did too!"

"Keep saying that and I'll punch your lights out again!"

"I'd like to see you _try!_"

"Silence!" Archer hisses. "There is an important meeting going on behind that door!"

Green seems somewhat chastened, but Domino just scoffs. "You mean a meeting with a bunch of you stiffs."

"_Domino_…" Archer says warningly.

But the girl has ducked around him and thrown the double doors open before he can stop her. Archer turns sharply on his heel just in time to see Domino throw her arms around the Boss from behind.

"Domino," the Boss says, "what are you doing here?"

"I never got a chance to give you my report, so I thought I'd do it now!" she replies sweetly.

Archer marches back into the room, ignoring the looks of contemptuous amusement on many of his colleagues' faces.

"Forgive me, sir!" the blue-haired admin says, self-deprecation hanging thick in his words. "She got around me before I could stop her!"

"It would seem that way, wouldn't it?" Giovanni murmurs just loud enough to be heard.

There is the press of two small bodies against his, and then Green is in the room, his hand clamped like a vice around Red's.

"She's a liar!" yells Green, pointing his finger at her accusatorily.

"Am not!" Domino retorts. She unwinds her arms from around the Boss's neck and stomps over to the boy, using the two inches she has on him to her advantage.

Green, unfazed, goes on. "Are too!"

There is open laughter in the room now. Archer feels the blood rush to his face in his frustration. From her position at the table, Ariana seems to be having a similar reaction.

"That will be enough," the Boss says, his voice dangerously low. As if by magic, the room falls deathly silent. Wheeling around in his chair, the Boss turns to face them. His eyes are especially dark, cold with anger. "Why are the two of you here?" the children scramble to explain themselves at once, but the Boss speaks over them. "The two of you will stay silent. Archer will explain."

Quickly, Archer explains what little he knows about the ridiculous situation.

"Who threw the first punch?" the Boss demands.

"It was Domino, sir."

"Then she will be confined to her room for three days. Green will be confined to his for two."

Domino seems to be about ready to retort, but the Boss silences her with a level stare. They hold each other's eyes for a few moments, Domino trying to find any trace in the Boss's eyes that he is just kidding. Finally, she turns on her heel with a huff, her head held high with wounded pride.

The Boss turns to regard Green now.

"I assume you know your way back to your room," he says icily.

"Y-yes, sir…" the boy murmurs.

"Then you are dismissed."

With much less dramatic flair, the boy makes his way out of the room. Quietly, his friend follows him out. Archer closes the door behind him.

"Sir –" Archer begins.

"Sit down, Admin Archer," the Boss commands, cutting him off before he could apologize. "I will deal with you and Admin Ariana later."

Archer complies wordlessly, head hung low.

"Well," Gideon's voice squeaks from the head of the table, "if we're finally done disciplining the children…"

There are some chuckles, though most are awkwardly subdued in the aftermath of the Boss's words.

The Rocket Boss and his two youngest administrators remain silent, however, their minds occupied with similar thoughts.

— . . . —

Red and Green are almost to their rooms when Domino saunters out in front of them to impede their path.

She isn't smiling anymore.

Red can feel rather than see the tension between the older boy and the girl. It runs off them in waves that make him nervous. The feeling is only exacerbated when Green's hand dives into his pocket, no doubt making a tight fist around Eevee's poké ball. Red turns his eyes to the beige-colored walls so that he won't have to see.

Green and Domino glare at each other for a few more long endless moments that make Red fidget uncomfortably before the silence is broken.

"This isn't over," Domino tells them.

And Red may not be the best at filling the silences with what goes unsaid, but he senses that this isn't what she means to say. He looks up to observes her and sees that there is an odd sheen to her dark eyes, which seem to be overflowing with feelings that she could not put into words. He takes notice of the way her fists are clenched, her knuckles white and bloodless.

The memories of what happened in the mess hall are fresh in his mind – the game, Green's gleeful accusation, Domino's retributive punch, the way Eevee seemed reluctant to chase a human around the room…

Red still isn't very good at interpreting subtext, but he is beginning to learn some new things about it. Unlike Green, however, who greedily learns everything their captors offer them as truth, Red's teachers are Pikachu and Eevee. By deciphering the subtle language of their small bodies, he is beginning to put a name to the things he sees in people—the way Green's shoulders are stiff (tension), the way Domino's eyes gleam in the light (hurt), the twist of Jose's lips whenever he talks about his jailed father (loneliness), the proud tilt of Archer's head, the light in his dark eyes whenever he talks about the Boss (devotion).

Perhaps this is how he knows that Green was lying when he accused Domino of cheating (his inability to look anyone in the eye, the minute twitch of his lips that Red remembers from when Green used to tell him that he didn't miss his parents—_no, not at all, stop being so stupid, Red_).

But no one asked him, so Red had stayed silent.

Never speak unless spoken to, Archer told them once.

Red takes that lesson to heart, at least.

Green, of course, cannot decipher what Domino means to say. He is too busy trying to be a strong trainer, battling in the Pit every night and ordering Eevee to _kill_ instead of _knock out._ He is too occupied with trying to be like the Boss (Red has only seen the man a few times, but he can already see that many of Green's new movements emulate the man's). He is too busy trying to be something else to look at his Eevee and see what she wants, or needs.

How, then, could he ever be expected to see what Domino means?

_I'm hurt_, Red imagines her saying.

Green only hears the words spoken aloud, so he says, "I'm not scared of a _girl_ like you."

Domino tenses (surprise), her fists get even more white (anger), and she seems to lean forward (desire to hurt, hurt, hurt), but Green laughs (mocking) and keeps his voice level (a semblance of control, of power).

"You gonna punch me again?" he asks. "Go ahead. As long as you do it first, you'll be the one who gets in trouble."

Domino bites her lower lip hard and turns away. "There are other ways to get even," she says threateningly before storming off down the hall.

And when Green's eyes light up in that familiar, victorious way, the parallels become too obvious to Red.

It hasn't been that long since they were taken, he thinks, but he still finds it hard to remember things from before. The dull color of the windowless walls and the violence of it all have made it hard to remember. He tries to hold on as long as he can to the memories—his mother's arms around him, the feel of the sun on his skin, the way Green's smile looks when untainted by malice or superiority or pride—but the harder he tries, the more and more these memories slip away.

He remembers the girl—her outline, her smile, the way her eyes danced happily whenever they played together and froze angrily when Green called her a _stupid girl_—but he cannot quite grasp all of her.

He closes his eyes in the middle of that hallway and reaches for the details, only to find that his hand comes back empty.

Domino reminds Red of her, if only not.

She tries so hard to be something she's not—a girl among so many grown-ups trying to be like them in every way. _She_ was like that too; Red always got the feeling that it was only when she was out there with them, the frilly skirts her mother had picked out for her forgotten in her closet, that she was every truly herself.

Red wishes they could be friends.

The things about Green that used to remind him of that time are fading fast, so it's almost comforting to have a reminder of something from before.

"Are you coming or not?"

When he opens his eyes, he sees that the other boy is already several feet down the hallway.

Green doesn't talk about before—what makes him blind to the subtle tells of people's innermost workings is the same preoccupation that makes him uninterested, and at times vehemently opposed, in reminiscing about before.

Quietly, Red sets out after him.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I'm not entirely sure if I'll have Act III done and edited by Monday. The restructuring of this chapter calls for some restructuring in what I already have in Act III, so there will probably be some delays in getting the next update up._

_I am so grateful to the reviewers for taking the time to tell me what they think! Thank you guys! I'm glad you seem to be enjoying this piece; that makes me very happy and proud. If you left an anonymous review, I'll answer here:_

**some human**: _Thank you! To have you characterize my story in such a fashion means a lot to me. I hope you enjoy this update as much!_

**Red and Green are epic**:_ Thank you for your review! Given Red and Green's different personalities, they aren't reacting to the environment in the same way. While Green is becoming more ruthless, Red is sort of stagnating, which I take to be the root of your request. Red will become stronger; it just won't be in the same way that Green is "strong." Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed this update and continue to read!_

**ponponpon**:_ I'm glad you think this was a great way to start your new year! When I first started writing this piece, I knew that I couldn't say what I wanted to say if I didn't include the real world themes. I'm very relieved to see that they're working out, because I was concerned that they would be clunky. Since this chapter was divided into two parts, I didn't realize that Red didn't show up in the last chapter. He is a protagonist, though, and one of the major ones as well, so you can rest assured that he will show up a lot and will be developed accordingly. Thanks again for reviewing, and I'm glad that you're continuing to read and are enjoying this story!_

_Thank you for reading this installment! I really do love to hear from you guys, so don't hesitate to drop me a review or tell me what you think, because it really does make me happy to know what you guys think. In the same vein, feel free to ask any questions you may have in a review or PM; I'm open to both. _

_I look forward to hearing from you guys, and hope the forthcoming Act III will be a great read!_


	5. Interlude I: Fire

_Notes: This is the first of what I've named the "interludes." The interludes are a series of unrelated, standalone installments that contain subplots that, while not absolutely essential to the main narrative, are complementary to plot. This being said, one does not need to read the interludes to understand the main narrative. The interludes do include subplots that are somewhat important, however, and I think that will be made clear when you finish this installment. That being said, I had a lot of fun writing this. I hope you enjoy reading it too._

_Chapter-specific warnings: unethical scientific experiments, mild language, mentions of death._

_Disclaimer: _Pokémon___ - its characters, setting, and all other borrowed elements - is the sole property of its creators. I am not profiting from this in any form.___

* * *

><p><em><strong>Interlude: Notes They Didn't Lose in the Fire<strong>_

[FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF [NAME REDACTED], CODENAME: JOHN SMITH]

8 July 1990

Arrived on site today. It's more than apparent that he wasn't exaggerating; everything here is state of the art, cutting edge.

They've issued me a codename. I'm not to address myself by my name anymore, nor may I can him by his. He has a codename too**:** Sakaki. Fitting, if not indicative of his inflated ego.

I'm not used to all this secrecy. My work at Devon Corp was completely transparent.

I don't care about any of it; I can't afford to. This lab has everything I need, and I'll gladly trade my principles for a chance to bring her back.

I am to examine the specimen for its authenticity as soon it arrives. Preliminary reports look promising.

-J.S

— . . . —

24 July 1990

I can hardly believe it. All tests confirm the specimen's authenticity. Microsatellite, SNP – all of them, even some cutting**-**edge methods I hadn't even heard of. They're all positive.

Sakaki is pleased. I cannot help but believe that my father would be as well.

-J.S.

— . . . —

1 August 1990

I have spent the last six days analyzing the recovered genome. The sample itself is small – an eyelash! – but it was the DNA degradation that probably did away with the missing 21.2% of the genome. I cannot complain. It's incredible that the sample was preserved as long and well as it was.

The amount of variation here is unbelievable. We dismissed the idea that the organism could contain the DNA of every pokémon in existence as a myth, but I've already isolated strands of DNA that match recorded samples of primitive rapidash and ponyta populations recovered from the Mt. Silver valley area.

There are dozens of others – inactive copies of these species' genomes. This is why it can transform; a biochemical process must target the desired inactive genome and activate it while simultaneously suppressing most of its own. If this was truly the antecedent to all existing pokémon…

No, I have no time to wonder about this. I have already isolated the organism's unique DNA. If this project – and my own – have any hopes of succeeding, I must focus on the problem at hand.

Will converse with Professors Nash and Darwin about the possibility of recreating the missing portion of the genome.

-J.S.

— . . . —

17 August 1990

All attempts to recreate the missing percentage of the genome have failed. It may have possessed enough of those inactive copies to successfully recreate another organism's DNA dozens of times over, but that is no help to us.

I was hoping to request permission to begin my own project by now, but Sakaki seems to be growing impatient with our lack of progress. Perhaps it would be better to wait until we have results to show him before I remind him of our arrangement.

-J.S.

— . . . —

29 August 1990

This project is beginning to wear me thin. I haven't left my workstation in goodness knows how long; I cannot afford to.

There must be something

— . . . —

8 September 1990

We have been thinking within the box for far too long. Perhaps it was simply desperation that drove me to this conclusion, but I cannot deny what it is – a solution. Perhaps so close to the cutting edge that it bleeds with unreliability, but it is a solution nonetheless.

Gene splicing: replacing the missing genome with the DNA of compatible species. If done with enough foresight, we might even enhance the clone's martial and psychic prowess.

Why settle for simply cloning it when we can make seamless improvements? Pokémon have so many weaknesses, but with this method we can wipe them out. The genes of machamp to compensate for the psychic**-**type's physical limitations, its psychic powers amplified hundredfold by the genes of alakazam and gardevoir…. The possibilities are limitless. This project has the potential to forever alter the face of genetics and put our people back on the map.

Our benefactor agrees. We are being allocated more funds, personnel, and resources.

I still have my doubts, and there are ethical concerns to consider.

Sakaki has given me the green light to go forward with my own project.

— . . . —

22 September 1990

After much study and debate, we have decided to utilize the soma of an alakazam's oocyte. They say legendary pokémon cannot breed, but the two species are similar enough in characteristics to suggest a high probability of success.

My own project is proceeding smoothly. At least there is no need to worry about any shortages of her genetic material.

-J.S.

— . . . —

1 October 1990

None of the oocytes have become viable. No matter. As long as we have the base, we can continue to perform however many trials are necessary to succeed. It only takes one success.

I dreamt of the accident again.

You told me that you were going to become Halley's Comet. I'll bring you back, Ai. I'll bring you back.

— . . . —

21 October 1990

The 497th somatic cell nuclear transfer attempt was a success. The embryo is dividing normally, and we will implant it into the uterus of an alakazam tomorrow.

-J.S.

— . . . —

24 October 1990

Implantation was a success. Apart from a mild violent episode from the alakazam in recovery, everything has been going smoothly. No one was injured.

Protective behavior is to be expected in pregnant pokémon, especially in psychics. Professor Goodall tells us that they are able to sense the new life growing within them and commune with it as the fetus grows. We will have to keep her closely monitored in the event that something goes wrong. This is far from a normal pregnancy, after all.

-J.S.

— . . . —

1 November 1990

The alakazam seems to be reacting well enough, though Goodall insists that it is too early to tell. The species' gestation period is comparable to those of humans when the time it takes for the egg to hatch is factored in. My colleagues are insisting we call it Eve. Fitting, if not a bit trite.

You two will be contemporaries, then. Its birth will bring about the rebirth of **F**ather and Sakaki's nation.

Yours will signify the revitalization of our life. Surely your mother won't be able to avoid the truth when your copy stands before her? She will be sorry for doubting me, but it won't matter.

We'll be a family again, Ai.

— . . . —

11 November 1990

We had an incident at the lab today.

During its checkup, Eve lashed out at Darwin's assistant as he attempted to perform amniocentesis. It rammed the boy against the wall three times before we could sedate it, and broke three of Nash's fingers as he attempted to restrain it for a long enough period of time to get the damned needle in.

Eve's brain waves spiked beyond the normal range for its species, and its psychic powers were heightened accordingly.

The autopsy report showed that it wasn't the impact against the wall that killed the boy (though that certainly did its damage). It was suffocation. The psychic field was so strong that air could not pass into his airways.

This merits further study. If we could replicate this effect on other species, perhaps we could create a contingent of psychics to provide support for the project?

Everyone is shaken, and I must admit that I am as well. If it had rammed the poor fool against your incubator tube….

— . . . —

13 November 1990

Goodall insists on reporting what happened to Sakaki. She says that this project is too dangerous, that Eve's powers will only continue to grow as the fetus develops and that soon it will be beyond our control.

On the contrary, I believe this indicates that we have surpassed even our highest expectations. The fetus isn't even a month old and it is already heightening its surrogate's psychic abilities. The amount of power it will be capable of when it is trained to the height of its powers….

Let Goodall give all the suggestions she wants. Fools will always doubt the work of giants.

-J.S.

— . . . —

17 November 1990

Goodall was taken away by some grunts yesterday.

I trust Sakaki knows how to deal with possible leaks. I used to detest what he had become, but now I know how it feels to work toward saving something you love.

Someone.

I picked up your heartbeat today.

It reminded me of the first time I heard it. I was with your mother, holding her hand while the lab technician took the sonogram. And when he ran the wand over that spot – oh, Ai, your mother and I were so happy. We'd never been happier.

Not until now, at least.

— . . . —

26 November 1990

Another incident – the fourth so far. Eve nearly shattered the two-way observation window after the sedatives wore off. The material was bullet-proof.

No one was injured this time, but we cannot continue to lose personnel, not after Nash and those technicians were caught in that explosion. Its brainwaves continue to increase at an exponential rate, and we are beginning to pick up a second set underlying Eve's.

I am ordering that the dosage of sedatives be increased. We are close to reaching the maximum threshold for pregnant pokémon, but I cannot afford the risks.

I cannot afford to risk you.

— . . . —

5 December 1990

A number of the technicians are complaining about headaches. Some of them have even claimed that they have heard voices. Menacing ones, they say.

Superstitious nonsense, of course. Eve has not regained consciousness since the last incident, and her brainwaves have been kept at a steady level.

I have sent a request to Sakaki for new personnel. It wouldnt do for these imbeciles to make any rash mistakes out of simple paranoia.

— . . . —

8 December 1990

Assistant Chambers was acting strangely today. She was telling some of her colleagues about her daughter and became emotionally distressed when she told us how she died in a car accident. Her distress became so acute that we were forced to sedate her.

Her medical history showed recent complaints of insomnia and painful headaches, but is that really the explanation?

She is too young to have a daughter, and she said her name was [THE FOLLOWING IS CROSSED OUT AND UNDECIPHERABLE]

Eve remains asleep.

It must be the strain of compromising her ethics. Yes. This is not the work for the weak of mind and determination.

— . . . —

1 December 199

The sonogram image of the project returned and it was oddly shaped. Malformed.

Darwin insists we terminate. I am almost tempted to agree but this was expected. This was expected. Modifications were made to the creature's genetic structure. Abnormalities like these are expected.

You're taking shape now you're beautiful and perfect Soon well be a family Ai. A family

— . . . —

2december

they found darwin swingingfrom the Rafters of the atrium today this is the fifth suicide this week.

father would be proud of me

eve is sleeping.

— . . . —

[NO DATE PROVIDED; GIVEN THE EVENTS DESCRIBED, IT IS HIGHLY PROBABLE THAT PROF. SMITH WAS REFERRING TO THE INCIDENT ON 30 DEC. 1990]

men in black came and said they hadnt heard a report from us in long time

they came to take you ai i wouldnt let them so i woke eve up

she made them go away

you me mommy will be a family ai family family family

— . . . —

[NO DATE PROVIDED]

eve spoke to me today

nonono

not eve it was baby

baby spoke to me

baby wants fire and wants end and wants destruction

baby wants wants **wants**

— . . . —

[NO FURTHER ENTRIES RECOVERED FROM WRECKAGE]

* * *

><p><em>AN: __Unfortunately, Act III has not yet coalesced from the nebulous thoughts and ideas I have in mind. I have made a few changes to the second part of Act II (there's a big chunk of Giovanni and Team Rocket-related backstory in there now), so you should check that out._

_As always, I'm so grateful to hear from you guys through the reviews you leave! Thank you so much! it makes me very happy to hear that you're enjoying this story! I hope I can continue to deliver!_

_If you left an anonymous review, I'll reply here..._

**Alice: **_Wow, thank you very much! I'm glad to hear that I surpassed your expectations and that you're enjoying what I've written so far! I hope you continue to enjoy this piece. Thank you again for taking the time to read and review, and I hope to hear from you again!_

**ponponpon:**_ It's me that should be thanking you for being a consistent and loyal reader and reviewer! The least I can do is reply to thank you and address your comments. I hope you enjoyed this installment, ponponpon!_

**Ello:** _Thank you for your review! It's great that you brought up Silver, because he's definitely going to become a rather integral part of the group dynamic as he grows older and the plot progresses. This universe's Red does give off an empathetic vibe, so I can definitely see where you're coming from with that. This being said, there will definitely be Red-Silver interaction in future installments. I'm humbled to hear that you're enjoying this story, and I hope that the future installments will continue to be enjoyable for you._

_My sincere thanks go out to the readers! I love hearing from you guys, so please don't hesitate to leave me a review! I'll be more than happy to address any comments, questions, and/or concerns you may have, so leave a review or PM me if you like._

_I look forward to hearing from you!_


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